Primes
by flyingwyvern
Summary: Mello finds himself in a complex web of savagery after arriving at Wammy House, but a certain gamer's there to help him cope--until even that fragile trust is called into question while they work to catch a murderer. Happiness wasn't meant to be. Complete
1. Primes

**AN: **This is a long, long story written a long, long time ago. It began just before 2008 started, and I finished it six months later, give or take a few. Looking back, it has some rough edges. Do not expect answers to all of your questions. This is not that kind of fic. Perhaps some day I'll go back and polish this one up, but until then, it remains as it is: a long, tangled story. Please forgive its awkward start; I promise that the later chapters are better.

Thank you for reading.

Fly, 1.28.2010.

* * *

"Who are you?"

The kid met his gaze stonily. Matt sighed and stuffed his Gameboy back in his pocket. "Look, kid, I really do need my wallet back. It's important."

The kid bared his teeth and scrambled farther up the tower of cardboard. Matt scowled. There was no way on Earth or any other planet in any other galaxy, real or imagined, that he was going to brave that haphazard pile. But he really did need that money...

So did the kid, by the looks of him. His blond hair was matted and almost indistinguishable in color from the cardboard he was perched on. His face was smeared with dirt and blood, and from the look of the joints that stuck out at every angle, it had been a while since he had had a steady food supply. "Look, kid, come down from there, and I'll get you some food, I promise. If you stay up there, I'm gonna have to go get my teacher, and he'll be mad."

Again--silence. Matt sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. That was it, then. Down came kid.

Matt abruptly shoved his shoulder into the pile of boxes. The kid's eyes widened, understanding, as the tower wobbled. Matt smiled thinly. "Get it, kid?"

Another shove, and the kid found himself sprawled on the asphalt in front of Matt. He scrambled to his feet, too slowly, and Matt was already clenching the front of his ragged shirt. "Think you can steal my wallet, kid?"

The boy swung his leg out and caught Matt in the side. Matt dropped the kid's shirt in a moment of surprise, but snapped back with an instinctive punch to his face. The kid stumbled into a fall and tried to scramble away, but Matt was already pinning him to the ground; he had gotten used to scuffles long before Wammy had found him, and the kid was starving as it was. The kid grunted as Matt twisted his arm behind his back. Matt winced inwardly at the sharp pop that snapped in the boy's shoulder--he hadn't meant to hurt the idiot, just scare him a little...

"Two, three, five, seven..."

Matt blinked, confused._What...?_

"...Nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-one, thirty-seven..."

"What the hell are you doing?"

Matt dropped the kid's arm and stared at him. The kid crouched on the asphalt, clutching his dislocated shoulder, reciting the primes all the while. "Fifty-nine, sixty-one, sixty-seven..."

Matt frowned and plucked his wallet from the other boy's hand. He didn't respond; his eyes remained unfocused, glazed with an emotion that was rather familiar to Matt. Matt frowned and pulled off his gloves. He had seen that glazed look of pain often enough in the mirror, before he had snared his second-place spot in the rankings...

"This is gonna hurt, kid." Matt sighed inwardly; here he was, calling the boy "kid" when the scrawny thing was probably older than he was. He would have to ask his name...or not, if the idea that had just popped into his head worked out. Names were a dangerous thing...

Matt popped the boy's shoulder back into its socket. The counting ended in a yelp, which was quickly replaced by a wary look. Matt felt the muscles in his jaw slacken at the boy's next move:

"Thank you."

Matt struggled to keep his face under control, to keep from breaking into a smile. Smiles were bad; apathy and the masking of emotions had served him well since birth, and he saw no reason to break that tradition for a pickpocket. "Yeah, well, don't thank me yet. Why'd you steal my wallet, anyway?"

The boy scowled and glared at the ground. So, then. Silence once more; so be it.

"You know, I've never met a stray who blocks out pain by reciting primes."

The boy shot him a dark glance. Matt grinned. "Come on."

The boy tried to tug his way out of Matt's grip as he found himself being dragged out of the alley by his captive elbow. "Hey!"

"So your vocabulary contains at least three words," Matt remarked. "Good. Only sixty thousand or so to go and Wammy might consider you."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"That makes five more. Good job." Matt had to wonder at that question himself. He had to be insane, introducing a new rival to the competition. Still...

He took another look at the kid, with his ragged hair and protruding joints, and shook his head. There was a light in his eyes, now, and it was a light that Matt recognized. He'd be damned if the kid wasn't going to take the test.

"You follow me, no questions asked. Got it?"

If only he had known that from this point on it would be the other way around--Mello leading, Matt following. But even then--even then, Matt still would have done the same.

Stupidity. It was just ingrained in his being, wasn't it?


	2. Sparring

AN: I'm beginning to enjoy writing this. Yay. And, oi--please review. Seriously. I'm flattered by those who add this to their alerts, but reviewers make me happier still.

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, I own nothing. Except for a pet dragon who lives under my bed.

* * *

"Mello—" 

"Don't call me that! My name is Mihael, for the last time—"

"Please calm down, Mello, or we're going to have to—"

"Get you fucking hands off of me! Why the hell am I—"

"Hold still, Mello. Aaron, the syringe—"

"What the hell are you—"

Abrupt silence. Matt suppressed a smirk. Even that kid couldn't stand up to the meds, apparently.

"Well, thank God for that, Aaron—it was about time!"

"Yeah, well, _you_ didn't get nailed in the stomach, so don't come complaining to me. Here, help me with him—"

Matt grinned and took his ear away from the keyhole. It seemed that his little finding had been more trouble than Brian had expected—which was saying a fair amount, really, because none of the kids came here from cheerful circumstances. There are only a handful of ways to be transferred to an orphanage—any orphanage—and none of them are pleasant. Loss of parents, loss of family, being disowned, being shuffled between institutions...

The normal response, particularly among the students at Wammy's, was to withdraw. Life and its accompanying emotions was difficult enough; coupled with a mind that made it impossible to relate to the general population, it was enough to drive any of them into seclusion. The staff normally had to tease reactions out of children, not restrict them. Matt had to smile at the thought; Mello was certainly going to be a shock to all of them. He was so _loud_.

Matt stood and flopped carelessly onto his bed, the Gameboy already in his hands. Let them think he wasn't interested; Mello didn't strike him as the type to be grateful for such attention, and the last thing he needed was for Brian to think him intelligent. That was the paradox, at Wammy's—despite the fact that it was an orphanage for geniuses, some of the staff still had to get it into their brains that the kids trumped their supervisors in brilliance.

His door opened, revealing Brian's harried face. The watchman looked at him warily from underneath a disheveled mop of black hair. "Look, Matt, you know your little find on the class trip?"

Matt glanced up from his game, an expression of polite disinterest stamped on his face. "Yeah?"

"He passed the test, with flying colors. A good find." _Except for the fact that he hates you, right, Brian?_

Matt shrugged. "Oh. That's good."

"And, well, you're one of the few kids without a roommate, so he's going to be staying here—we're not sure if it'll be a permanent arrangement yet, but for now, you're going to have to clear off that bed."

"_What?_" Matt was very proud of his acting skills. Of course, he had already hacked into the system and _seen_ Watari's orders, but it wouldn't have done for the staff to know that—not yet, anyway. "But...it's my_stuff._"

It was indeed his stuff. Matt had latched onto his spare bed greedily, and had transformed it into a sort of working space for his pet project—hacking the Wammy network. He had already gotten into some of the basic layers—Watari's communications with the staff, for example—but he had a while still to go, and with every new layer of security came a new wave of CDs and gadgetry to be added to his arsenal. He had the tangle of wires spread across the spare bed, and by this time they were jumbled two feet high. Matt scowled up at Brian. "I can't just _move_ it all."

"Yes, you can," Brian returned. "And you will. Honestly, Matt, this room is far bigger than you're making it out to be. What do you want—new shelves? We can do that. But Mello need somewhere to sleep."

"Is that what you've named him?"

"Yes, it is—didn't you hear him in the hall?"

Matt motioned to his Gameboy. "I have better things to do."

"Well." Matt had to suppress a laugh at the way Brian's mouth twitched. Condescension, was it? The buffoon was so _backwards_ sometimes. "He'll be joining you tonight after dinner, understood?"

"Yeah, whatever." Matt waved him off. "It's not a problem."

"Good." Brian turned to leave, then paused. "Matt?"

"What now?"

"Why did you bring him back?"

Matt blinked. There was one question he hadn't been expecting. "Huh?"

"Ever the eloquent one, aren't you? How did you know he would do so well here?"

"How can you say he's doing well when he hasn't even started yet?" Matt shook his head and flipped his Gameboy on. "If you must know, it was just a guess. I thought non-geniuses like you knew about intuition? And anyway—aren't we training for L's spot? If I couldn't tell if someone was worth my time or not, I'd make a poor detective. I don't like idiots, and it's in my interest to learn to avoid them."

Brian shrugged, his dark eyes flat. Matt grinned—his comment about Brian's intelligence had hit a nerve after all. Rumor had it that Brian was one of the leftovers from the days before L—a wannabe who had never made the cut. "Well, it's not important."

"Sure thing, Brian."

Matt pulled a face at Brian's back as he closed the door. He didn't particularly like the man, even if he was better company than some of the others. It wasn't like he had anyone to talk to…the only person rivaling his intelligence was Near, and Near was an introvert, plain and simple. Matt's lips twitched at that idea. Having a conversation with Near? Sure, if you didn't mind speaking to brick walls.

He sighed and rolled off the bed. It was going to be such a _pain_, moving his equipment, but he supposed it was his own fault. He hadn't expected to have to share his room with the kid, but he should have seen it coming. It wasn't as if there were that many spare rooms. He frowned and hesitated in the act of bundling a group of red cords. If the kid was going to be acting half as violent with him as he had been with Brian and Aaron…_shit._ The little pickpocket had better not mess up any of this up, or there would be hell to pay.

Matt gritted his teeth and returned to the messy task of finding somewhere safe to stash all the devices that made up his pet project. He had an hour until dinner, and he'd be damned if any of it was going to be in any danger whatsoever.

--

Matt returned from dinner to find his room blissfully empty. He sighed and flopped back onto his bed, surveying his room. It was odd to think that after tonight, it wasn't going to be just _his_ room. Brian had better have been telling the truth about the kid's test score—if he had landed himself with a jabbering idiot, Matt was going to get frustrated very, very quickly. His eyes flitted from wall to wall, memorizing the map of his current surroundings. They were for the most part bare—Matt had never seen the point of dressing his room up in colored paint or posters; his only belongings of import were his games and the rest of his gadgetry, which was safely tucked under his bed. Funny, but in the five years he had been in this room, it hadn't changed at all. And now he would have to share.

Ten minutes later, the door creaked open. Matt didn't take his eyes from the dimly glowing screen of his Gameboy. "You're late, Brian."

"Aaron, actually." Aaron limped into Matt's room. The gamer raised his eyebrows at the sight of the hall supervisor. His right eye was quickly purpling, and from the way he was walking, it was obvious that his stomach and his left leg were both heavily bruised.

"Jeez, man, what happened to you?" As if he didn't know. Mello knew how to fight, apparently. Matt didn't see what the problem was—the kid hadn't been overwhelmingly great at it back in the alley, but then again, if the kid was as smart as his test scores claimed, anger would be a stronger motivator than fear.

"I'm fine, Matt." He was embarrassed, then. That could be useful. "Your roommate's a bit…volatile. He's going to be somewhat sedated when we bring him in, so don't expect coherency out of him just yet, okay?"

"Yeah…fine…"

Aaron nodded and turned around. Matt watched as his leg buckled slightly with the added pressure—damn, but the kid had to be a decent fighter. The food he had been given at Wammy must have made the difference. "Shell? Could you bring him in?"

The matronly woman Matt recognized as the infirmary head shuffled in, carrying an unconscious Mello in her arms. "He'll be out for another half hour or so, at most," she told Matt. "If you have any problems, call on of us."

_Like I'd need to, with all the cameras in this place._ "Sure thing," Matt replied, refocusing his attention on his game as Shell placed the sleeping boy on the newly cleared bed. "Is that it?"

He was pleased to see the vein in Aaron's forehead twitch. "Yes, just about. We expect you to show him around Wammy tomorrow, help him get his bearings. Are you capable of that, Matt?"

Matt kept his face blank. "Sure."

"Good."

And then they left. Matt jumped silently to his feet and padded to the door to check and see if they were truly gone. A quick peek at the keyhole assured him that the adults were already out of earshot. He spun around and dove under his bed, reaching for his laptop. He flipped the screen open and reawakened the machine, his eyes flitting back and forth between programs.

"Hey, kid—don't move, okay? This is important."

The boy didn't acknowledge Matt's instructions. Matt smiled grimly and began tapping away at the keyboard. "And…set. There we are." He paused and looked at the screen admiringly. "Now, _there's_ a job well done." He yawned and shoved the laptop back underneath the bed. "Good god, they're easy to trick. You can stop playing now."

Mello remained silent. Matt rolled his eyes. "You're too limp to be _really_ out of it. She said you'd only have a half-hour to go until you were back to normal, tops, and I know they don't hit newcomers with stuff_that_ hard, not right off the bat. I've rigged the camera system to keep ghosts of us on their screens, so don't worry about_that._ As far as they can tell, I'm playing Zelda and you're still unconscious."

Mello cracked an eye open. "They have cameras in our bedrooms?"

"Hey, you talk. What a surprise."

"Ha. Very funny." Mello shifted into a cross-legged position on the spare—on _Mello's_ bed, Matt reminded himself. Damn. "Why the fuck did you land me in this place?"

Matt yawned again and hopped back onto his own bed, ignoring Mello's blue-eyed glare. "I was bored."

"You were _bored?_" Matt found himself suppressing a smile—again. The kid sure had a talent for being unintentionally hilarious.

"Yep." Matt stretched out and glanced sideways at Mello, who was currently glowering from beneath his matted bangs. "Why?"

"_Fuck_ you."

"What's wrong?" Matt propped his chin on his palm and raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think that—"

_Ping._

"Ow!"

Matt scowled and clutched at the pulsing knot on his forehead. "What the _fuck_ was that?"

Mello's face remained flat and cold. "If you must know," Mello replied stiffly, "I don't appreciate you landing me here. Not one whit."

Matt grimaced. "Fuck, then. Why'd you hit me with a bloody rock?"

"Stay away from me," Mello spat. Matt blinked, surprised at the venom in his voice.

"Serves you right, man, for trying to steal my wallet. And anyway, you were starving, weren't you?" Damn. He was backpedaling—this was nothing short of a sparring match, and Mello's flare of anger had caught him off guard.

"I can take care of myself, asshole," Mello growled. Matt looked at his clenched fists warily. Volatile, huh?

"Sure." Matt left it and rolled onto his back. "Look, Mello—"

"_Mihael._ I have a real name."

"—_Mello_." Matt wasn't going to lose their first battle—not completely, anyway. He was perfectly fine with a draw; a draw meant he ought to gain at least some respect from his high-strung roommate. "Mello, look, I don't give a fuck, okay?" _Liar_, the voice in the back of his head whispered. "You're here. Get the fuck over it. You've got food, and a bed, and anything else you ask for, they'll give you. It's too damn bad that your pride doesn't like it, but that's the way it is, sorry. And if your pride is _that_ bad off, you can just show us all up in classes, and no one will dare say a word of reproach. Now, if you don't mind—_I'm going to bed._"

Matt didn't bother waiting for Mello's response. Instead, he reached into his pillowcase, snapped out a remote, and turned the lights off. He rolled to face the wall and closed his eyes. Mello's anger hissed out with his breath, but Matt could honestly care less. Anger was part of the game. Once they got past the first round or two, it would probably go away.

Either that, or Mello would refuse to play and stomp away in a storm of recriminations and frustrated insults. And that would be exactly the sort of thing this huffy, haughty kid was likely to do.

Life was just one big sparring match, wasn't it?

* * *

AN: So, it continues. I decided that I liked writing these two enough to develop this into a full-fledged story...It's my first experiment with a longer fanfic, really, so please feel free to point out anything that you think is a bit off. Is the pacing right? Is it interesting at all? In character? Reviews and critique get you love. I'm enjoying this...Matt's character is barely mentioned in the mangas, and it's so much fun to fit the puzzle pieces together... 

Subscribe if you want to see where this one goes. I have plenty of free time in school, so I plan on working this one out some.

So long...

10:05PM, 1/2/08


	3. Pride

"Turn off the fucking light, Matt!"

"You'll get over it." Matt reached over Mello to yank the curtains open. "Is the great Mello afraid of sunlight?"

"Yeah, well, fuck you." Mello rolled off his bed and scowled. "Where's the bathroom in this place, anyway?"

Matt pointed out the door. "Down the hall, third door on your right." He held up a plate of eggs. "You missed breakfast, but I got the day off to show you around Wammy, so it doesn't really matter. You can have these once you get back, and then we'll go."

Mello grunted in acknowledgment and stalked out. Matt sighed and left the plate on Mello's bed. He prided himself on his ability to read people, but he hadn't had a chance to crack Mello yet. Still, the kid had to like him better than Brian or Aaron—he had half-expected to wake up to find Mello strangling him, but his windpipe was alive and well.

Maybe that was an inaccurate conclusion. Mello probably just disliked him less than those idiots.

The blond slumped back into the room, a new white T-shirt replacing his rumpled one from yesterday. Matt made a mental note to stop at the supply office during their "tour"—Mello would probably want some clothes of his own instead of the generic issue.

"So," Mello said after a few minutes of chewing contentedly on the eggs, "Why do you have to show me around, anyway? What's so bad about just handing us maps and letting that be it?"

Matt rolled his eyes. "You were drugged when they brought you in, weren't you?"

Silence, of course. Matt allowed himself a small smirk of victory. _Score one for Matt._ "If you hadn't been so intent on decapitating the staff, you would have seen how big this place is when they brought you in," he informed the sulking boy dryly. "Giving you a map wouldn't do any good, because there's too much for you to learn from a map. How good are your skills at memorization?"

"Excellent," Mello snapped, irked. They both knew from his prime-counting episode earlier that in all likelihood memorizing was a source of amusement rather than a struggle.

"Good," Matt retorted. "We're going to cover a lot of ground today, so pay attention, all right?"

Mello snorted and took another bite of the eggs. "Yeah, whatever," he said. "It's not like I need you escorting me around this place like a little kid, Matt."

"No," Matt agreed, "you don't. Actually, you could probably make it through just fine until someone asks you to team up with them."

"Teams?" Matt didn't miss the dark flicker of distaste that coated the word. Good.

"Teams," Matt repeated coolly. "I'm not into that stuff, but—most everyone has their little gaggle of 'friends' who they team with. Basically, you end up being someone's lackey. Then they all do races and riddle-marathons and shit like that, together."

"That's stupid." Mello shook his head and scraped the last bit of eggs off the plate. "Why bother doing something dumb like that? All that winning proves is that you know how to hide in a herd."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Nice call," he said. "Usually I try to trump the winners solo, just for kicks. You should see their faces." He turned his back to Mello and reached a hand under his bed, searching among the tangle of electronics. "But my point was—watch out for them. You don't want to get in fights if you don't have to, because Aaron will cut privileges and things and you'll have to tag along with the group."

Mello rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the advice. I'll be sure to play nice."

"Yeah, well, I figured it was worth a shot." Matt's fingers closed on something under his bed and he grinned. "Gotcha!"

"What?"

Matt pulled out a small black box and smiled broadly. "Ever dealt with keypad security before?"

"Huh?"

"You really _are_ terribly intelligent in the morning." Matt flipped open one side of it, revealing a screen and a miniature keyboard. He pushed a green button on its side once, and put it in his pocket. "They lock us out of some of the better places with coded keypads, so I figured out my way around them." He stood and glanced down at the still-seated Mello. "Well? Coming or not? Bring that plate—Cook'll want it back."

Mello sighed and obeyed. "Coming, I guess," he grumbled, clambering to his feet. "It's still way too early."

"It's nine-twenty," Matt said witheringly. "I'm going to assume it's the drugs that messed you up, and not your own lazy ass." He twisted the knob and shoved his door open. "Follow me."

Mello followed sullenly along as Matt lead him through the labyrinth of hallways that formed the skeleton of Wammy. "Rooms," Matt said, waving lazily towards the rows of identical doors as they passed by. "Nothing of interest, really, except for camera locations. There's two on top of every door, one pointing downward at the door across the hallway, and one pointing diagonally at the door across and to the left. Don't expect to find a blind spot, but as long as you don't give anyone a reason to look at the tapes, you're probably safe."

"In other words, don't do anything stupid."

"I thought that went without saying?"

"Oh, shut _up_."

Matt shrugged and continued walking. They turned left when the hall ended and continued onward. "This whole wing of the building is devoted to the guy's rooms," Matt explained. "Girls have rooms on the opposite side, so if you wanted to go there for some reason you'd head the other way. We're going to the academic halls next, though, and then we'll hit the kitchens and the offices."

They passed most of the time indifferent to each other. At every new hallway, Matt would point out the camera locations, heat sensors, and the like. Mello couldn't help but pose a curious question when Matt began rattling off the angles of the ceiling cameras and the times of the watch changes. "How do you know all of this, anyway?"

Matt shrugged. "There's a camera in the security room, which is pretty stupid. I hacked it."

"Oh."

They lapsed into silence for another moment, and then Matt spoke up. "So. What classes do you think you'll take?"

"Huh?"

Matt rolled his eyes. "We get to pick our classes here—at least, some of them. I mean, everyone has to pick up at least one foreign language, and have a basic understanding of how the world works and all, but for the most part, you choose what field you specialize in. I'm in computers."

"Oh." Mello scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets. Matt smirked—the poor kid's pride obviously wasn't holding up too well under the realization that he knew next to nothing about the world of Wammy's. Ignorance was far from bliss—torture of the cruelest form was probably a closer guess. "Well, I guess I'll do math or something. It doesn't matter. I don't really like school."

Matt raised his eyebrows. "Why not? I mean…classes here are different, you know. It's not like you get treated like an idiot."

Mello scowled at him. Again, Matt found himself taken aback by the smoldering loathing Mello's eyes. He averted his gaze and crossed his arms over his chest, pretending that he wasn't retreating.

"I don't see why you care," Mello snapped into the silence. "It's not like it's your business, Matt."

Matt shrugged, affecting nonchalance. "Touché."

----

They passed the academic halls without further incident, and moved on quickly; without Mello's schedule, there was no point in showing him the individual classrooms. Cook was pleased to see Matt, though—she beamed down at him when he presented her with Mello's breakfast plate. "Oh, aren't you nice? None of the other kids are this considerate, I tell you!" She took the plate from him and glanced behind him at Mello. "Now, who's your little friend?"

Matt opened his mouth to speak, but Mello beat him to it. "I'm not his friend," he retorted. "And you can go fuck off."

Matt spun around and tried to utter an apology, but Cook cut him off. "Leave him be," she told him firmly, keeping her amber gaze on the defiant boy behind him. "I've seen enough of the children here to know when they're just acting—and we do have some prodigies here, certainly." She smiled thinly at Mello. "I forgive you, for what it's worth. Not much, I suspect."

Mello spat on the floor and strode out of the kitchen, his hands balled into fists by his sides. Matt hurried after him—the kid was _fast_. "Hey! Mello! What the fuck was that about?"

Mello scowled and spun around, glaring at his unwanted roommate. "I'm not _acting_," he said in a low growl. "I'm not."

Matt crossed his arms and glared back. "You didn't have to be so rude," he snapped. "God, Mello, don't you know anything about politicking? You can't flip off every person you meet just because they're trying to help—"

"I don't need help!"

Matt paused. Mello's chest heaved with the ragged tempo of anger as his nails bit into his palms. "I don't need anyone's help," he hissed. "Yours least of all!"

Matt stood stranded in the hallway for a moment before trotting to catch up to Mello again. The blond had stalked away in his fit of momentary fury, and was currently doing a marvelous job at denying Matt's existence.

"Hey," Matt said. "Mello? Sorry."

Mello gritted his teeth. "Didn't you say we were going to the offices next?"

"Oh…yeah."

So that was it, then. Matt had to agree with the volatile kid—it seemed as if ignoring their arguments was going to become a matter of course. Fine by him. He was never one to trip up someone's pride—not in such an obvious way, at any rate.

And Mello certainly didn't have a shortage of pride.

* * *

AN: This is going much faster than I would have thought--in terms of my uploading speed, not the plot, but oh well. You can't have everything! Life has been kind enough to provide me with spare time, and thus--I write! 

Reviews are loved, as always. A little shout-out here to cheeky doggie, who is thus far the first and only reviewer for the second chapter and a very kind person in general. I salute you! I know I said earlier it would be a few days--possibly even a week--before I updated, but the next chapter is going to be longer (I think) and I figured I might as well break it in two and post this now. :)


	4. Puzzles

Mello insisted on sulking for the rest of Matt's tour. The gamer refused to acknowledge Mello's little act of rebellion, however, and continued to flatly map out the logistics of Wammy—even if his words _did_ fall on deaf ears, it was better than admitting a loss.

Matt hated to lose.

Fuck, he had even apologized to the kid. And for what? It didn't take much of a brain to figure out that being polite to the cook was a good idea. Matt liked food—he didn't want to get on bad terms with Cook. And Mello had to be a stupid, arrogant _kid_ and act like he already owned the place.

This was _his_ game, damn it! It was _his_ job to win. Mello was supposed to play by the rules. Matt did not lose—ever—but Mello was winning. That was…not supposed to happen.

To back up now would be a certain loss. As it stood…this was a setback, nothing more. He'd have the kid's respect, if not his obedience, by the end of this term. That much he could do.

That's all the game was, really: jockeying for leadership.

In Matt's mind, the air hummed with static until Mello finally broke the silence. "Is this it?"

Matt smothered a smirk of victory. "Is what it?" He had to work to keep his voice calm and distant. With every careless remark Mello made, his mask of apathy wavered a little more—a phenomenon too dangerous for his liking. _Watch yourself, Matt._

"This." Mello yawned and waved his hand above them languidly. "Wammy. It's pretty normal."

"That's because we're in the office section, you idiot." Matt rolled his eyes and pulled the black box out of his pocket. The kid's arrogant indifference really knew no bounds. "We had to get you your forms, but now we can finally see the good stuff."

Mello glanced at him warily. "I doubt it's much to see."

Matt shrugged. _Liar._ That totally wasn't a juvenile's self-defense mechanism. "As you like. We can always go back to the room, if you don't want to see the library."

"Why the hell would I want to see the library?"

Matt grinned. "You haven't seen this library." He spread his arms and tilted his head upward in a dreamy daze. "Thousands of books, everywhere, but that doesn't matter. They have this…absolutely incredible bank of computers, wired with everything you could possibly want, and all you need is the password. And then there's the Puzzle Board."

"The what?"

"You'll see." Matt grinned again, a fevered smile working its way across his normally bland features. "Puzzle Board is…divine. Are you competitive, Mello?"

"Well, _duh._"

"Puzzle Board is divine," Matt repeated. "And addicting. I usually spend my time playing when I'm not working at Wammy's system. Here—follow me, I'll show you—"

They swung around a corner and came face-to-face with a wide wooden door. Mello eyed the keypad attached to the doorknob skeptically. "How do you use that thing, anyway?"

"Watch and learn," Matt said. "Or not. I doubt you can learn how to mimic me _that_ easily."

"Ha. Like I'd want to."

Matt ignored him and flipped open one end of the black box, revealing a glossy strip. He leveled it carefully with they input pad and pressed another button. "Watch me."

The face of the black box was a keypad identical to the one on the door. When Matt pushed the button, numbers began to scroll frantically across the screen in a dizzying whirl of data. "Jeez, Matt. What is that?"

The box chirped, flashing what was presumably the correct keycode. "It's mine, is what it is," Matt replied airily. "My design, too. Isn't it great?" He punched in the sequence of numbers and grinned as the real keypad chirped at him. "Awesome. We're in, come on."

Mello glanced around the library as Matt shut the door behind them. "It's…huh."

"Nice, isn't it?"

Mello shrugged. "I suppose."

Matt laughed. The library was enormous—as big as the dining hall, if not larger—and it was filled from floor to ceiling with row after mahogany row of books. It was shaped in a massive semicircle, focusing on the ceiling-height window on the far wall. In the cleared area before the window was a giant table, glittering in the sunlight. "You suppose?" Matt shook his head and gripped Mello's elbow. "Come on."

"Hey! Let go of me!"

The table wasn't really a table at all. Instead, it was a glass case, home to a giant screen. Mello frowned at the glowing grid of pixels. "What is this?"

"Puzzle Board." Matt walked around to the other side of the table and flipped a switch, a manic spark gleaming in his eyes. With a hum, the screen blanked out to black. "It's got to start up again, of course, but you'll see. It's simple, really. Imagine five-player chess crossed with Go."

"I…what?"

"You'll see," Matt repeated smugly as the screen came up again. "Here we go. We're going to play as one person—see this panel? We use the mouse over here to pick which table we join…"

An hour and a half later, Mello was swearing in a fashion that would have made a sailor proud. "Fuck! That should have been foolproof!"

"Missed the third player," Matt muttered, leaning over the board. "I'll bet they were teaming. That's illegal, damn it. I wonder if—"

The clock tower's bell interrupted him with its customary droning toll. Matt rolled his eyes and ignored the warbling reverberations. "God, that's annoying, but I think that's eleven. I guess we ought to…hey, what the—Mello! Are you listening to me, man?"

Mello looked up at Matt, his eyes wide and glazed with that all-too familiar expression of pain. "Bells," he mumbled, licking his lips. "Bells."

"What?"

Mello shook his head and probed his forehead gently. "I…It's eleven, you said?" The bell tolled another low note. "That's…no, I'm fine." He flinched and clutched at his hair. "Stop!"

"Mello?" Matt hovered anxiously in front of him. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"It's…_nothing_, fuck it, Andrew, leave me alone!" Mello's voice hiked an octave as he stumbled away from Matt. He lifted his fists and glared at him. "I get it, okay?"

"Mello, what…"

"_I get it!"_ Mello shuddered and closed his eyes. The bells rang again, loud and insistent. _Ninth stroke._ "Eleven! I know, all right? Thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, _damn it_, twenty…twenty…"

"Mello, what the fuck is wrong, man? Mello?"

Mello swayed uneasily. "Twenty…twenty-three…"

--

"Mello?"

Mello's eyes snapped open. "What the fuck—get _off_ of me, you bastard!" He snatched his arm away. "Where…what the…"

Matt removed the offending hand from Mello's arm. "Sorry," he muttered. "I just didn't know if you were awake or not. We're in the infirmary."

"The…what?" Mello strained to lift his head and glance around the room. Sure enough, it looked to be the same infirmary Matt had shown him earlier that day: whitewashed walls, gleaming windowpanes, and flawlessly made beds. Ugh. "Why am I—_ow_!"

"You shouldn't try to sit up just yet," Matt informed him dryly. "You're still too weak from the sedation. If you try, your muscles will just give out, so stay in the bed—should I have told you that earlier? There's water for you in that pitcher, by the way, in case you want to—"

"Sedation?" Mello's eyes bulged. "What the fuck! Why the hell did they _sedate_ me?"

"Mello…" Matt sighed and leaned forward in his chair. "Don't bite my head off, okay?"

"I think I can fucking decide that for myself. Why the fuck did they sedate me?"

"You scared me, man." Matt hesitated, then continued. "I mean…well, you fainted, but…I'm sorry, Mello, they had to sedate you—otherwise you would've woken up with a splitting headache, apparently, and I don't fancy seeing you with a headache."

Mello flicked his gaze back up to the ceiling. "Whatever." Matt heard the anger strung tautly beneath his words. "Look, Matt, I don't want to talk about it."

Matt hesitated again. Mello was going to be pissed, but—

"Mello, who's Andrew? And what does he have to do with bells?"

Matt watched Mello's irritation slowly dissipate. "Huh?"

There it was again—that dark flash, a storm rolling over the sky-blue clarity of his eyes. Matt held Mello's gaze and shrugged. "You heard me. Andrew and the tolling of bells. Sound familiar?"

"Matt?"

Matt felt himself slide towards the edge of the chair as his muscles tensed. Mello's body was inflating again, with something far less trivial than irritation, and his eyes were cold. "What, Mello?"

Mello's bony hand wrapped around the metal water pitcher. "Get the fuck _out_."

Matt's legs shoved him to his feet of their own accord, about five seconds before the pitcher slammed into his shoulder and drenched him with ice water. "What the—_fuck_ it, Mello, what was that?" Matt's fist came up, fully prepared to retaliate, and then he froze.

Mello was _afraid._

Matt kept his expression clear as he studied the blonde's eyes again. Yes, it was definitely there—a smothered undercurrent of fear. Certainly, it was hidden beneath layers and layers of anger and frustration, but Matt could see it.

"Fighting back like this wouldn't be fair," he informed Mello quietly. He wiped his soaked bangs to the side and placed his best actor's-sneer on his face. "You can't even sit up, Mello."

Mello didn't say anything in response. Matt was treading on dangerous ground. They were both well aware that had the sedatives worn off by now, Mello would have been at his roommate's throat.

"Good night, Mello."

Matt broke the silence this time. He turned slowly and left the infirmary—taking his time, maintaining his pride in spite of the water that slid slowly down each strand of copper hair.

"Matt…what happened?"

Matt passed Shell on his way out of the infirmary. She looked at him, knowing concern visible in her eyes.

Sometimes he wished that he couldn't read people from something as stupid as that.

"Nothing," he replied curtly, well aware of the fact that he looked like a drowned rat.

"Nothing at all."

--

"Did I lose that?"

He rolled onto his stomach and sighed. His fingers kneaded his still-damp hair, trying to tease an answer out of the crimson strands.

Fuck. He had learned that Mello was—was what? Afraid of something? Human? Didn't he already know that?

So. Score one for Matt. In return for a throbbing shoulder, he knew what was somehow terrible enough to make Mello—the great, arrogant, blustering Mihael—faint from terror.

When he said it that way, Mello sounded like a swooning girl.

Matt felt his chest constrict uncomfortably. He was good at playing with the emotions of others, but that didn't mean that it was always…_right._ It was all good and fun, but to do that to Mello…Matt's self-restraint had probably hurt the blonde more than any punch. It could easily be read as a sign of condescension, and nothing would piss the touchy kid off more than condescension. Matt didn't want to _hurt_ the kid. Cruelty wasn't something he enjoyed. If anything, when he had dragged the stray into Wammy's, he had been hoping for…a co-conspirator, really. Someone who actually had a brain. And Mello had actually turned out to be rather good at Puzzle Board. Today had almost been…fun.

And then…he had walked away, wet, dripping, drenched in shame and curiosity and ice water.

A retreat.

"Damn."

--

"Did I lose that?"

Mello scowled and glanced at the damp splash on the tile. He had probably hurt Matt with the pitcher, but the bastard deserved it. He growled and rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"What the fuck did I say?"

Mello hated losing. It wasn't something that he did. And here he was—out of place, stranded in an orphanage full of strangers. And his one almost-friend, otherwise known as his enemy, otherwise known as that arrogant son-of-a-bitch, knew about…something. How much he had mumbled in his delirium, Mello didn't know, but Matt was the type who seemed to find out _everything._ It was probably a good thing that he didn't have any records at the orphanage.

Mello growled and slammed the infirmary pillow over his head. It wasn't his problem, anyway. He didn't give a fuck over what that asshole knew or didn't know.

"Damn."

* * *

AN: So, thoughts? Do share! It needed some revisions, but I'm happy with the final product. Tell me what you think! Critique and (constructive) criticism welcome. 

Jan. 7th, 5:45 PM EST

**Dear Reader:** By final product, I meant this chapter's final revision. Never fear! We have so very much farther to go...the main plot hasn't really been introduced! ;)


	5. Entrance

* * *

Mello still wasn't there when Matt woke up to the insistent beeping of his clock. He sighed and swung his legs over the bed. "Alarm, desist." 

The beeping halted abruptly. Matt grimaced and rummaged through his dresser for a new set of clothes. Damn. Where was Mello, anyway? Surely they hadn't needed to keep him there overnight…?

He was a bit later than usual for breakfast; with all of his gadgetry squirreled under his bed, it had taken him a little while to find his Gameboy. Cook raised an eyebrow as she handed him his plate. "Where's your new friend?"

"Didn't you hear him yesterday, Cook?" Matt grinned wryly. "I'm not his friend, apparently."

"Nonsense." Cook shook her head. "Am I as big an idiot as Mello thinks I am?"

Matt's eyes immediately hardened. "How do you know his name?"

Cook raised her eyebrows at Matt's sharp inquiry. "Easy, there," she retorted. "You're not the only 'gifted' one in this building, Mail." Matt winced; the adults only resorted to original names when they were trying to make a point. At least Cook had the decency to keep her voice low. "He's set to be released this morning, by the way. He'll be joining you in classes after breakfast."

Matt blinked. "Oh. Thanks."

Cook waved him off. "Off with you, Matt. Go eat."

Matt obediently took his plate of pancakes to his usual table. It was a tiny corner table by the window, made to seat two at most. No one ever sat with him, of course; the spare chair was almost always stolen by some other team of obnoxious children. Matt didn't mind; it gave him the opportunity for some more solitude.

He dug his fork into the pile of pancakes and scowled. It wasn't right that Cook had known of Mello's status before he had. He should have thought to check Wammy's system for such a trivial detail—hacking into the infirmary would probably have taken all of forty-one seconds. Matt shoveled the pancakes into his mouth, brooding. He must have been preoccupied. Yes, that was it—

—Which meant that he had been too busy worrying over their "friendship" and Mello's status to think rationally. Damn and blast. He had known the kid for all of what—two days?—and he was already snared as surely as some fucking rabbit in a trap. Was he really _that_ pathetic?

Matt scowled and glanced at the bag by his feet. He had his Gameboy, at least. There was no need to pay attention in class today, not with a distraction of an entirely different kind available at his fingertips. Granted, he would have work from yesterday, but it couldn't be that bad. Matt was, after all, the second-best student in the entire Institute. He doubted that his professors could have dredged up anything that he would have called "challenging" over the course of a day.

He slid into his seat in Professor Roderick's room precisely twelve seconds before the bells rang to denote the beginning of class. Roderick raised his thinning eyebrows. "Have you deigned to join us today, Matthais?"

Matt gritted his teeth. Only this idiot called him _Matthais_—honestly! He had chosen_ Matt_ as his given name, not bloody Matthais. _Idiotic pig._ "Yes, sir," Matt replied promptly. "I was instructed to give my roommate a tour of Wammy yesterday, sir. My apologies if I missed anything of import."

He watched smirks bloom on the faces of a number of his classmates. Only Matt had the ability to pull off what might have been a perfectly humble bit of fawning and still manage to lace it with ironic disdain. "Very well, Matthais," Roderick replied stiffly, his fat chin wobbling with aloofness. "Your work from yesterday will be due by the end of school hours."

Matt raised his own eyebrows in mockery. "Indeed? May I have the papers then, sir?"

Roderick grunted and handed the sheaf of papers to the student at the front of their row. Silently, the student passed them backwards, but he could see quite a few grins of encouragement. Matt's mouth twitched as he tamped down a smirk. In Roderick's class, at least, he knew how to win over the majority of his class.

Roderick, apparently satisfied with being mocked twice in the first two minutes of class, turned to the projector to begin notes. Matt glanced down at the stack of papers. Good god—he loathed stacked fractions with a violent passion. There simply wasn't a _point_ to them; he deeply suspected that the only time one encountered such convoluted notation was in lessons. That probably meant that yesterday had been the only time Roderick would discuss it—the professor was an idiot, but he was a good enough teacher. Which meant that the notes would be new. _Crap._

Matt scowled and reached into his bag for his recorder. He slipped it into his desk and flipped the microphone on. Multitasking was wonderful, but he still wished he didn't have to waste his batteries on stupid things like _notes._

Halfway through Roderick's examples of the applications of the quadratic formula, the door opened with a quiet _snick._ Half the class whipped their heads around immediately, curious. No one interrupted a class—_ever._ Granted, it was Roderick, and Roderick was useless, but still…

Matt raised his eyebrows at the sight of a familiar, sulking blonde. Well, well. So he was jumping straight into Algebra…?

Aaron was standing behind him. "Professor Roderick, I must apologize for the interruption, but Mello was in the infirmary last night. He will be joining your class for the rest of the semester."

A muscle Roderick's forehead twitched. Matt and Mello's eyes met, smirking silently in a shared moment of scorn. "I…yes. Yes, that will be fine." Matt grinned inwardly at Roderick's stammer. _Idiot. He wasn't asking you for your permission._

Aaron nodded and left, leaving Mello slumped in the doorway. "Well?" Roderick said stiffly. "Come in, boy. Do you have your test results for me?"

"Oh. Yeah." Mello shrugged and walked over to hand them to the professor. Matt watched him thoughtfully—Mello was being…well, not courteous, exactly, but not overly rude. Where was this coming from?

Matt caught the silent tightening around Roderick's mouth as he skimmed Mello's test scores. So, then—Mello _had_ done well. "Very well, Mello," he said briskly. "You may sit next to Matt." Roderick blinked, realizing his mistake—as far as he knew, Mello was brand new, so names wouldn't have been much help. "Er—Matt is the one with the red hair in the far row."

Mello didn't say anything to give away the fact that he already knew Matt before making his way over to Matt's seat in the far row of the classroom. "Thank you. Sir."

Someone had taught him manners. Almost, anyway. And he was…quiet. It was weird.

Mello slid into the seat next to him without looking up. Matt frowned. Surely he wasn't still angry…?

He didn't expect what came next.

"S'rry," Mello mumbled out of the side of his mouth. "For your shoulder, I mean."

Matt shook his head as discreetly as he could manage, keeping his eyes trained on Roderick. "It's fine. I…sorry, too, I guess. We've got to keep quiet here, though, because—"

"Matthais!" Roderick barked. "You may socialize after class."

Some of the kids grinned at the idea of "Matt" and "socializing" being in the same sentence. Matt rolled his eyes and mouthed to Mello, "Later."

Mello nodded briskly and turned his eyes to Roderick's lesson, a look of mild contempt hovering over his face. Matt sighed and returned to his make-up from yesterday. Bloody complex fractions took up too much paper.

Matt finished his work a few minutes before the lesson's conclusion. He dog-eared the corner of the packet and tapped the student in front of him on the shoulder. "Pass this up, would you?"

She nodded and took it from him. Roderick, in the process of handing out that night's homework, looked up sharply. He took the packet from the student in the front and scowled, his jutting brow creasing into a frown. "Done already, Matt? I hope you found the lesson within your grasp."

Matt shrugged. It was better not to say anything.

The bell rang again, announcing the end of the first period, and the students began to pack up. Mello set his pencil down and glanced at Matt. "Matt?"

Matt flipped off his recorder and put it back in his bag. "Yeah?"

"What's your next class?"

Matt blinked. "Oh—Mandarin, why?"

Mello's face cracked into a grin. "Good."

"You too?"

"Yeah."

"Mello?"

"Hm?"

"What are the chances of that?"

Mello shrugged. "That depends. What factors are you considering?"

Matt had to grin back. Nothing had been broken that couldn't be fixed.

--

"Come on, I have a table to myself, but if we don't hurry there won't be a spare chair—"

They skidded into the dining hall, Mello close on Matt's heels. Matt darted past the empty chairs and ran over to his table. He had a curious way of hurrying—running while walking, almost, as if he couldn't cast aside his dignity for the sake of speed. Matt groaned inwardly at the sight of one of the upperclassmen. "Hey! Acer! I need that chair!"

Acer grinned. "Oh, really? Is that so, Matthais?"

Matt flushed. "You're not Roderick, Acer. Give me the chair. You're not supposed to have it, any way."

"Says who?" Acer laughed and lifted the spare, making as if to leave. "Sorry, kid. Sucks for your new buddy."

Mello scowled and crossed his arms. He didn't like this new kid, he decided sourly. He was too..._ big._ He had the proud, impractical muscles of someone used to showing off, and an ego that was emitting more radiation than Chernobyl. Mello's eyes hardened. And then, of course, there was the fact that he had been referred to as Matt's "buddy."

"I have a name, fucktard," Mello said quietly. "Mello. Learn it. Now give me the chair."

Acer leered down at the younger boy. "What's wrong, wittle one?" he cooed. "Can't deal with the thought of being friends with the social failure?" He laughed. "Of course, I can't blame you for that, but…"

"Acer, just give us the chair," Matt said wearily. "Please."

Acer raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Why should I listen to—"

Mello punched him abruptly in the jaw. Acer staggered backwards, rubbing the spreading bruise thoughtfully. Mello raised his fists and glared at the older boy. "Fuck you, moron. Give us the goddamn chair."

Acer laughed. "Really?"

He set down the chair and lunged at Mello, grabbing a fistful of the shorter boy's too-long hair and twisting. Mello growled and lashed out with an ineffective kick, then gripped Acer's wrist. He dug his nails into the pit of his veins, listening to Acer's howl with grim satisfaction. Acer dropped Mello and swung at him again, aiming at his unguarded face, but Mello dropped into a crouch, sending Acer off balance. Mello smirked. All show and no skill. He could take this easily enough.

Mello slipped his leg behind Acer's ankle and pulled. Acer swore and tumbled to his feet, cursing. The blonde smiled grimly and went for Acer's shoulder—the same move Matt had pulled on him in the alley.

Acer's shoulder popped out of its socket.

Mello laughed at Acer's grimace and put more pressure on the dislocated limb, effectively disabling the older boy.

"So, then—Acer, was it? Do you think we could have that chair now?"

"Fucking…fucking bitch…"

The blonde twisted his arm. "You were saying?"

Acer clenched his teeth and scowled, suppressing a wince. Mello smirked; his prey looked like a trapped rat…

"Yeah. Yeah. Sure, sure, take the chair."

Mello stood and kicked at Acer's prone form. "Good. Now get up, and go away."

Acer nodded mutely and scrambled to his feet, his arm cradled limply against his body. He glared at Mello as he limped away, resentment mixed with humiliation smoldering in his eyes. Mello turned around to find a small audience watching his performance.

"Well? Anyone else?"

They left.

Matt kept his gaze focused on the ground. "Th…thanks, Mello."

Mello snorted and pulled up the dropped chair. "Don't be a retard."

Matt looked up. "What?"

"Why the hell didn't you fight back?"

Matt shrugged. "It…it wasn't worth it. Not for me. Acer's going to be mad as hell."

"Yeah, well, I don't give a fuck." Mello shrugged. "He's weak."

"You humiliated him. That makes him strong."

"That's stupid."

"No, it's true." Matt dropped his gaze. "I…trust me on that one, okay?"

Mello snorted. "I'm not afraid of that kid."

"I guessed as much from the way you went after him," Matt snapped. "I…whatever. Stay here, okay? I'm going to get our lunches, and we don't want to lose that chair again, huh?"

Mello scowled and waved him off, recognizing a retreat when he heard one. When Matt returned, a laden tray balanced in each hand, the blonde took one from him silently. Matt reached into his vest pocket. "Um…Mello?"

"What?"

Matt sighed and tossed a chocolate bar onto the table. "Thanks, again."

Mello picked it up gingerly. "What?"

Matt shrugged and lifted his sandwich. "It's…well, I dunno. I owed you one."

"Funny, I never thought you'd be the type to have ethics. Bastard."

"Oh, shut up and take it. Ungrateful brat."

"What _is_ it?"

Matt paused, his sandwich hovering in midair, a cautious smile working its way across his face. "You don't know what chocolate is?"

Mello scowled. "Why should I?" He flipped the bar over. "Huh. So it's a cold, solid hunk of foil. Thanks, Matt."

Matt rolled his eyes. "You open the foil, Mello."

Mello frowned and peeled the foil back. His nostrils flared as the scent drifted upward. "Oh…wow…"

"Jeez, man, what planet are you from? Eat it."

Mello didn't need further prodding. He carefully peeled off the remainder of the foil and sunk his teeth into it cautiously...

_Heaven._

Matt hid his smile with his hand as Mello's eyes rolled back into his head. "What's wrong, Mello?" he teased as the blonde ripped another hunk from the bar savagely. "Haven't you ever had chocolate before?"

Mello was drowning in pure bliss, and fuck, but he didn't care if his guard was down. He grinned at Matt—a true grin for once, not a smirk—with a maniacal glint in his eye. "Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"_Heaven._"

Mello clutched the chocolate bar to his chest as he savored the texture of this new, godly sensation. It was like—like nothing, _anything_ he had ever had before…

"Incomparable," he mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate. He let it sit in on his tongue for a moment, eyelids fluttering in a state of utter euphoria. "_Gods._"

"There's only one god, you know," Matt remarked dryly, grinning at his enraptured friend. "I never took you for a pagan, but hey, whatever floats your—"

"Shut the fuck up, Matt," Mello replied dreamily. "You win, m'kay?"

Matt smiled—a true smile, for once, not a smirk of victory—and shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Mello, haven't you ever had chocolate before?"

Mello groaned and stared at the empty foil in his hands. "No, I—fuck, it's gone…Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we get some more chocolate?"

Matt paused. "Er…only if you can get Cook to forgive you—"

Mello was already out of his chair. "Come _on,_ then! We've only got five minutes 'til the next class!"

Matt shook his head and darted after his fickle friend. Only Mello was capable of thrashing a kid one minute and falling into euphoric, chocolate-induced bliss the next. Good god, what on earth had he _done_?

* * *

AN: Well, that wraps things up for this chapter, but never fear--Mello's attack last chapter shall come into play soon enough, I promise! Oh, and as an aside--if you want me to reply to your reviews, either sign in or leave your email! Of course, either way, I'm just thrilled to get reviews, but keep it in mind. Critique welcomed! This story is a lot of "firsts" for me (the mini-fight scene, for instance), so feedback is loved.

January 9th, 2007, 10:17 PM


	6. Truce

The day had passed without further incident. Psychology and Biology had flown by in a blur of lecture notes and rapid-fire rounds of questioning. Matt was pleasantly surprised to find that Mello matched him easily in the Biology questions despite having not taken the class—having a rival was something he was unaccustomed to, but it just sparked more heated dedication. He had never been too concerned with relative rankings—so long as his work was good, Matt could care less about the rest of the world. Measuring success against another's results was just plain stupid.

Dinner, too, was uneventful. No one tried to take the "spare" chair this time; Acer had spent the meal sulking in a table on the far side of the room, with the former occupant of his new seat slouching behind his back. After dinner, they had retreated to the library, away from the chatter of the lower ranks and the hostility of their (relatively) intelligent competitors.

Matt booted the screen up again and glanced at Mello, who was already busy gnawing on a bar of chocolate. "Can you concentrate with that, Mello?"

Mello snorted. "I beat you in Biology, didn't I?"

"Only the second time. First and third rounds were _mine_."

"Yeah, well, you use your team as a crutch."

"Fuck that." Matt grinned and shook his head. "You know full well that that competition was between you and me. Our 'teammates' were spectators."

Mello snorted. "Why_are_ they all so stupid, anyway?"

Matt shrugged. "They're not, really. We're just at a higher level. Did Roger tell you why we're here?"

Mello scowled. "I was under the impression that _orphanages _were for _orphans_, Matt. No need to state the obvious."

Matt shrugged, ignoring the hostility in Mello's voice. _Mental note: Mello as an orphan equals touchy subject. _ "Yeah, well, you're a bit off." He glanced at the board as it opened to the lobby screen. "Here, let's start—we don't have that long until curfew, but we can squeeze a game in. Breaking out of the hall after lights-out is easy, but we still have to go back to our room beforehand. I'll tell you as we play." He tapped one of the open tables with his finger. "Here we go."

The tiled hexagonal board spread out before them. Matt leaned over the board, watching as White moved his knight forward. "Weak move," he commented. "We've got ourselves a noob."

Mello drummed his fingers against the edge of the table. Matt pointed to the board. "Watch," he ordered as Blue moved and snatched White's knight with his pawn. "Idiocy. I love noobs. Knight-first works fine in chess, but not in Puzzle Board. See, knights move three segments over and one tile across, right? Since we play Puzzle Board on the edges instead of the faces—"

"—And because there's six of us, pawns are actually quite useful early on." Mello shrugged. "So what? Are you going to keep being a secretive little fucktard, or do I have to beat the brains out of you, too?"

Matt grinned. "Surely you've noticed that the kids here aren't as stupid as normal brats? Wammy is more of a school than an orphanage, Mello."

"Hah." Mello snorted and ripped another piece of chocolate from his bar. "What's your point? Are we the next-gen baby geniuses?"

"In a manner of speaking." Green seized one of Blue's pawns. Matt frowned and trailed his fingers over the holographic projection of his knight. "That could be useful…"

"Damn it, Matt, don't ignore me. Stop beating around the bush."

Matt shrugged and slid his knight along the board, setting it safely between two of Green's pawns. "To cut a long story short, we're all competing to inherit the work of one of the greatest detectives of all time." Matt snorted. "It is by his will that the sun rises and set; by his good grace rain comes and plants grow…" He shook his head. "The other kids worship him."

"And you don't."

It wasn't a question. Matt shrugged. "I don't see the point. I don't want to be a detective, really. I like my games better." He watched impassively as Orange took one of his pawns. "Tough luck, buddy. You should be focusing on advancing, not on petty change." Matt sighed and offered Mello a dry smile. "But, anyway—that's why nobody likes lil' Matthais. You can expect much of the same, if my guess is right."

Mello frowned and collapsed abruptly into a cross-legged position on the carpet. "So they…don't like you because you're ahead of them."

"Good."

"And you think…you think I'm a rival."

Mello bit down on his knuckles and stared gloomily up at Matt. The gamer was leaning intently over the Puzzle Board, his mind preoccupied with mapping out his strategy. "Nice call, Mello, but I don't care about winning."

"That makes you weak."

"No. It makes _them_ weak." From his angle on the floor, Mello couldn't see Matt's eyes, but he could hear the cool indifference well enough.

"Fuck you, Matt. Lies never do any good."

Matt smiled faintly and slid his bishop across the board. "If you say so. I suppose it all depends on how well you can fool yourself."

"And you're good at that, then?"

"Not as good as you," Matt shot back. The gamer's back had taken on a hunched posture now, and Mello allowed himself a small smirk. The idea of self-denial was apparently—

"Who's Andrew, Mello?"

Matt's voice lashed out, low and angry—a child's retaliation. Mello's mind immediately shut down, the warm glow of victory dispersing into the chill of memories. "None of your fucking business, _Matthais._"

Matt bit his lip and shrugged, returning to the Puzzle Board. His silence was enough; Mello could see the mute waves of anger and self-recrimination in the redhead's tense fingers. Mello scowled and brought the chocolate to his lips again. The euphoria he had discovered that day at lunch eluded him—the chocolate tasted bitter, dark, which would have been well and good if it hadn't reminded him of ash and blood.

Matt's fingers danced across the Puzzle Board. He would win, eventually, but that was a virtual game, played against inferior dabblers. The real opponent lay in the brooding blonde sitting slouched below him, gnawing pensively on a bar of chocolate as the Puzzle Board hummed.

It was a long game.

--

After Matt won, they trooped back to their room in silence. Mello had only managed to beg three more bars of chocolate out of Matt at lunch, so he reluctantly wrapped the chocolate and dropped it onto the nightstand. There was no telling when he would be able to beg money off of the stubborn-ass bastard again.

Matt flopped onto the bed and booted up his Gameboy. As per his usual, it didn't take long for him to become engrossed in the rapid-fire button sequences. Mello leaned against the wall and watched him gloomily, fidgeting with the edge of his too-long sleeve. The clock on Matt's nightstand ticked wearily by, sluggishly counting down the minutes until lights out.

Matt was very good at ignoring people, Mello decided. It wasn't particularly nice.

He could have cared less about the brat's denial issues. Obviously, Matt had issues getting by at Wammy. Had his pride allowed it, Mello would have confessed to mild surprise. After all, the cocky redhead exuded confidence bordering on arrogance. It was odd to think that he would be so easily damaged…

_Then again,_ a dark voice sang in the back of Mello's head, _you were always easily hurt, too…_

Mello shut down that portion of his brain, narrowing his attention to his roommate's digital endeavors. He had enough on his mind without voices like _that_ whispering around his brain.

"Matt?"

"What?"

Mello was not about to be put off by a sharp retort. "Are you going to fucking ignore me, or can you bear to acknowledge the fact that I exist?"

"Don't flatter yourself." Matt scowled and paused his game. He rolled over onto his side and glared at Mello. "I'm well aware that you exist, and I'm not mad at you. That would mean that I was exerting mental energy for your sake."

Mello snorted. "Yeah, right. If you're not ignoring me, then talk."

Matt arched an eyebrow. "Aren't I?"

"Fuck that, Matt." Mello settled back, allowing a smirk to grow on his lips. It covered his relief—if Matt had really been mad, Mello would have found himself horrendously _bored._ "Snapping at me isn't talking."

"No, it's not. It's just an exercise of my vocal chords." Matt's fingers hovered over his dormant Gameboy. "So. You go first."

"Why?"

"Because you're the one who fucking wants to talk, moron."

"Huh. Well, did you know that once you get past two, you can't add any two primes to get another prime?"

Matt shook his head. "You really love primes, don't you?"

"What? At least I don't bury my face in video games."

Matt jabbed the save button and flicked his Gameboy off. "Well. Your little theorem is stupid as hell, Mello. Two's the only even prime, and any two odds make an even. Since all other primes are odd, when you add to of them together, you'll get an even every time. I thought you could come up with a better theorem than that."

"Random facts aren't theorems, you ignorant ass. That's just an observation."

"I'll take you up, then." Matt grinned and rolled onto his back, facing the ceiling. "Did you know that roughly forty-nine percent of the population has below average intelligence?"

"Ha. So very funny." Mello propped his chin on his fist. "Did you know that 'genius' is a term other people use to excuse their own stupidity?"

"I knew that," Matt replied quietly. He sighed and rolled back around to face Mello. "It's not so fun, is it?"

"What?"

"Being smart."

Mello paused. "How would you know?"

"Nobody likes to lose out," Matt said. "I mean, I'm cool and all with being second-best to Near—you haven't met him yet, but he's first in line here. But nobody else likes being shunted aside." Matt shrugged. "It was like that back home, too. I was in public school, which was just _wonderful._"

"Yeah?"

"Well, you know what it's like. Nobody likes to be shown up. I learned politicking then. I had to learn to tag along with larger groups, take the cuffs over the head in exchange for the protection of a pack. Stupid as hell, but it was more convenient than actually getting into fights—I had to walk home, and it's too easy to get ganged up on. You know what idiots are like."

Mello hesitated, uncertain. Yes, he knew about jealousy. He knew…

"But…you never fought back."

Matt's voice was ambivalent, distanced, as though he was talking about another kid, another life. "Not really, no."

"And…that was okay with you."

A shrug. "I guess."

Mello lapsed into silence again, thinking, mulling over what had been said. A faint smile tugged at Matt's lips. "I was right, you know."

"What?"

"About you." Matt laughed. "I knew you were smart."

With that, the redhead reached for the remote in his pillowcase and turned off the lights, leaving Mello alone with his thoughts.

---

Days passed.

Matt was beginning to build a solid profile on his new roommate. It was…different, having Mello around. Matt had always been careful to distance himself from the other children. _His peers._ What a laugh. Despite the genius IQs of all the students, they acted like savages, and Matt had found no reason to take part in their games. Everything was calculated, cold; nothing was done aimlessly. It made Matt sick, some days.

Mello was different. Everything about him was raw, loud, violent and vibrant. The kid had never learned the art of deception. His emotions were pitifully and admirably like a regular child's—easily discernible and quite irrational. Matt liked that. Sincerity was something new.

They spent their days sprawled in the library, playing games and playing Puzzle Board, sequestered away from their fellow orphans. The verbal sparring matches remained, but the malice was gone. Instead, their dialogue had morphed into a form of ongoing amusement for the both of them. Matt was happy, almost. It was an odd feeling.

And then Aaron had to go and spoil it all.

"I have an announcement, everyone. L is coming."

Some things are too good to last.

* * *

AN: Ugh. I didn't think this chapter was particularly good. Perhaps that's a product of my diseased, pox-infested brain. dies Yep, that's right. I'm sick. And I'm enjoying wallowing in self-pity, because my head feels like a hell. Just a cold, never fear, but still. My brain aches. 

Yeah. Maybe I need to shut up. At any rate! I promise that the coming chapters are actually going to bring the main plot into play. Promise.

**Reviews are loved! **

January 18th, 2008.11:00 PM


	7. Ideals

AN: Enjoy. :) Reviews get you love!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

It was sunny.

Matt hated the sun almost as much as he hated his peers. It seared his skin and burned his eyes, leaving him temporarily blind until he managed to return to shelter.

Matt did not like things that rendered him vulnerable.

He scowled and retreated further under the awning. By his side, Mello shot him a curious glance. Matt's jaw twitched in a nearly imperceptible movement that was their equivalent of a shake to the head. They had grown adept at reading each other's body language. It minimized the need for sparring matches.

Matt sighed and pinched the crease of his brow. The kids were so bloody _loud._ Every child in the orphanage, from the toddlers to the teenagers, was arrayed on the front lawn in the absolute incarnation of disorder, and every last one was jabbering.

It was enough to drive him insane.

The two of them were pressed against the outer wall of Wammy, as far from the driveway as possible, but Matt could hear the abrupt silence perfectly well. He tossed a wry grin at Mello. "Here we go."

Matt saw him, then, as he clambered out of the limousine. It was a familiar sight: hair right out of Sonic, the immaculate posture of a hunchback, the haunted eyes of an owl. Matt gritted his teeth. The hero was returning.

L surveyed the gathered students with a curious half-smile, his lips curled around his thumb. He said nothing to acknowledge their eager puppy-eyed admiration.

His eyes found Matt.

Matt scowled and glared back. L nodded, once, a faint dip of the chin that the other children probably missed. His eyes shifted to Mello, then back to Matt.

L bit his thumb.

Matt's face colored. L broke off their staring match and made his way up the pathway, Wammy following at his heels.

"Matt."

"Yeah?"

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

Matt rolled onto his stomach, focusing on the game. "Please be clearer, Mello."

Mello was lying on his back, watching the ceiling above his bed. "You know what I mean, asshole. What was that little display about?"

Matt's thumbs stilled. He sighed and jabbed the pause button. "It's nothing."

"Don't treat me like an idiot." Mello's eyes slid from the ceiling to focus on his friend. "If it was nothing, you'd have laughed it off with a cynical remark, and you'd still be playing your goddamn game."

"Have you read Romeo and Juliet?" Matt asked abruptly.

"Yeah." Mello frowned, waiting for the connection. Matt's smile was twisted into a bitter jester's smirk that was too close to Acer's grin for Mello's liking. Mello had never seen him this angry. It was different.

Then again, Mello wasn't sure that he altogether disliked it.

" 'Do you bite your thumb at me, sir?' " Matt quoted, mocking. His voice twisted into an exaggerated impersonation of L's mechanic tone. " 'No sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I do bite my thumb, sir.' What a laugh, what a coward!" He slipped back into his own voice and rolled over to face Mello. "That's all it is. L knows I don't like him, and he bit his thumb at me, which—to quote the Bard again—'is a disgrace to them if they bear it!' "

"You're talking in riddles again, Matt."

Matt flashed Mello a shaky smile. "Sorry. L's nothing but a kid, see? He doesn't like the fact that I'm refusing to play his game, so he's mocking me in such a way that it stays our little game." His smile twisted into a grimace. "You'll see soon enough. Actually…" Matt paused and reached over to his laptop, which was humming contentedly on his nightstand. Matt tapped at a few keys and nodded to himself. "Within the next few minutes, to be precise."

Mello, by now well accustomed to Matt's mastery of the camera system, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "Matt?"

Matt glanced over. "What?"

"This isn't like you. What gives?"

Matt shrugged again, weighing his words. "You'll see," he repeated finally. His gaze flicked sharply to the camera display on his laptop, and he snapped the lid closed. "We're going now."

Matt was already on his feet when the doorknob twisted open. "Matt, Mello," Aaron greeted each of them. "L wishes to speak to the two of you."

Matt's lip curled in a smirk. "About time," he snapped as Mello rose from the bed. "Took you long enough getting here."

L crouched on the edge of the chair with his knees drawn up to his chest. His eyes flicked up as the door opened. Matt stalked in, shadowed by a considerably less tense Mello. L gestured to the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. "Sit, please," he murmured, examining the oddly matched pair with his too-large owl's eyes. "Would you like some tea?"

Matt slid into the chair silently, refusing to acknowledge the detective's offer. Mello grunted what was presumably a "no" before collapsing into his own chair. L's lips twitched at Mello's genuine disinterest. This new pupil certainly had less…finesse…then his surly roommate.

L delicately plucked a sugar cube out of the dish and let it drop into his own teacup. "Matt," he said calmly, reaching for another cube, "you are mad at me."

Matt kept his silence. L's lips curled into a slight smile. "You haven't changed," he remarked softly as he placed a third and a fourth cube into the steaming beverage. "You always were more independent than the others." L reached for still more sugar. "On the other hand, perhaps 'indifferent' would be a more accurate term." Once the seventh cube had dissolved, L raised the cup to his lips carefully, savoring the sweetened flavor. He looked back up at the two students. "I would appreciate it if you would speak to me, Matt."

"Is there any need?" Matt's voice was cool. "I don't have to, do I?"

"No, you do not," L agreed, not without a touch of sadness. "I believe we are beyond the need for such pretexts." His gaze shifted to Mello. "And you, Mello?"

Mello looked up, irritated at being ignored for this long. "What?"

"How do you find your classes? Are they challenging enough?"

"I'm learning, if that's what you're asking, but the other kids are too slow." Mello paused, and then asked impulsively, "Who are you, anyway?"

L blinked, his teacup hovering delicately below his lips. "I beg your pardon?"

"Who are you?" Mello crossed his arms over his chest. "I mean, I've heard that you're some great detective and all that shit, but what's it to us? And what's with the hero worship?"

L set the teacup down and looked at Mello thoughtfully. "Intriguing," he murmured. "You are surprisingly forward, Mello. As for your question, I am L."

"Isn't it odd to define yourself by a letter of the alphabet?" Mello asked sarcastically. "You're being evasive."

L shook his head. "That is a very Matt-like response," he replied. "I am merely stating a fact. I am L. That is all there is to my identity." He held up a hand. "I realize this does not answer your question, but allow me to continue. I am my job. I hunt down criminals at the behest of nations and, more commonly, the true powers behind those thrones. I search, and I discover." He lifted the teacup to his lips again. "As far as why I should matter, the answer is again found in my job.

"Forty-nine percent of the world posses below-average intelligence," L continued, inclining his head to Matt. Matt scowled, irritated at the detective's use of one of his favorite quotes. "In contrast, one quarter of one percent of the world population possesses intellect that can be considered 'genius.' And of that quarter, sixty-two percent will never make a meaningful contribution to the world at large." L's voice cooled as he finished his last sentence. "This is where our ideals diverge, is it not, Matt?"

Matt scowled and avoided L's gaze. "I don't owe the world anything," he snapped. L smiled and slipped his thumb into his mouth.

"As you wish, Matt," he replied. "However, I operate according to my own ideals, and it is my wish that the students at Wammy learn to do the same."

"Fat lot of good that does, when it's a cesspit of scheming savagery here," Matt snapped. "They're all united in the spirit of _rivalry_, L. What good does that do for the world?"

L returned his attention to the teacup. "There was an eighty-five percent chance of such a response. You are dismissed, Matt. Mello, it was quite nice meeting you. I hope to repeat the experience under more pleasant circumstances."

"And then you do that!" Matt scowled and gripped the edge of the armrests. "You fucking _dismiss_ me just as soon as—"

"Matt." Mello stood and looked warily at L. "Come on."

Matt shuddered and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah," he growled, trying to regain his composure. "I'm coming."

L watched his reflection in the teacup as the door swung shut. He sighed and downed the remaining tea in one gulp. His hand jabbed the intercom button on the edge of the desk.

"Watari?"

The familiar voice crackled through the speakers. "Yes, L?"

"Please post the new rankings with all due haste."

"Right away, sir."

"Thank you."

L leaned back and slipped his thumb into his mouth thoughtfully. This would certainly be an interesting stay.

They made their way back to the room in silence. Matt threw himself on the bed and slammed his eyes shut. Mello sat at the edge of his own bed, watching. The time passed silently, with Matt's hitching breath the only noise to mark the fading seconds. Mello continued to wait for Matt to lose it.

"Don't bloody look at me like that, Mello," Matt growled at last, keeping his eyes pressed shut. "I'm just thinking."

"You're not going to explode, then?"

"No."

"Good."

Mello began unwrapping a new bar of chocolate. "Are we going to go to the library?"

"Maybe. Let me think."

Mello snorted and bit into the chocolate. He had never quite regained the feeling of bliss from that first bite, but it was still pretty damned good. Some things you just got conditioned to, for better or worse, but that didn't mean you had to stop.

"Matt?"

"Yeah."

Mello set the chocolate down and wrapped the foil around it again. It was distracting, and he wanted to hear this answer. "Why _does_ L get under your skin so easily?"

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Mello._"

"Seriously, Matt."

_Never show weakness._

"Fine." Matt kept his eyes pressed shut. The fuck with their game. "I just…it's sickening, you know? Everyone hangs onto his every word…he thinks he's gonna change the world, Mello. He's so fucking stupid…"

"But you don't want him to be."

"You're sharp."

Mello was silent; the observation had been unnecessary, and they both knew it. Matt spoke. "I used to idolize him, you know."

"Really?" That surprised Mello. He hadn't pegged Matt as gullible, or prone to needing heroes.

His forearm twitched in a silent reminder. In order to outgrow that need, one of two things had to happen, Mello reminded himself. The need could vanish with time into the apathy of adulthood—unlikely and impossible for both of them—or you lost a hero. Mello knew the latter situation well enough.

"Really." Matt grinned faintly. "And then…well, you know how it goes. Wammy is…brutal. We practice Darwinian survival, here. And L…for all of his ideals and high-minded rhetoric, he lets it happen. I survive because I don't offend anyone, and I keep to myself. I don't want to lead the pack, but I'm no meek-minded follower. I've broken away…it suits me, but a solitary wolf no longer owes the pack. L doesn't think so."

"And that's why you no longer get along."

Matt shrugged. "Pretty much."

"Huh."

Matt laughed and opened his eyes. "Is that the best you can do, Mello?"

"Sorry." Mello heard the apology fall from his lips and blinked, then scowled. Matt grinned.

"Well. Anyway." Matt stretched and sat up. "I really shouldn't have gotten so pissed off in there," he remarked. "Thanks for dragging me out."

Mello grunted; Matt smirked. The blonde handled gratitude worse than apologies. "How much chocolate have you got left?"

"Just this bar."

"Good." Matt climbed to his feet. "Let's get lunch, shall we?"

Mello grinned and followed, more than happy to oblige. _Some things never change._

Class was back in session for the afternoon.

"Leo."

A slap; a splatter of blood. Silence.

"A funny name for a limping rat, don't you think?"

The snap of another blow. Leo maintained his silence.

"How _presumptuous._" Acer grabbed for the boy's right hand, holding up the slender fingers for all to see. "Fuck, kid. You've got _girl's_ hands, you know that?"

Leo looked down. Acer laughed and gripped the joint of Leo's index finger. "You fucking look at me when I do this, Leo." He pinched from either side, hard.

Leo yelped.

Acer examined the shard of bone that poked through the skin. "Good boy, Leo. Hey, here's an idea—you wanna team with us?"

Mello glanced over at Matt. "Matt," he said, softly. His friend looked up from his Biology book, eyes cool.

"What?"

Mello inclined his head towards the other side of the room. Matt shook his head. "It's Wammy, Mello."

"Is it?" Mello kept his voice low. "You told me about teaming, earlier."

"Yeah."

"Why wasn't I recruited?"

"Scores were just posted today. They're always put up after L gets here." Matt resumed copying vocabulary out of the book. "Nobody knew if you were worth it when you first got here. Then you thrashed Acer."

"That doesn't make sense."

Matt inclined his head in acknowledgement. "I never said it did."

Leo mumbled his assent across the room. They all had known that the kid would break eventually. He was new, and small, and not particularly gifted—it had been a given from the start. Even the teacher had known. She was gone, conveniently out on a long coffee break while they were supposed to be copying down vocabulary.

It made Mello sick.

Acer grinned, pleased, and dropped Leo's hand. The smaller boy scampered back to his seat in the last row and kept his head down. There would be no going to the infirmary to patch his finger up—questions would have to be asked, and the answers wouldn't do anything but harm.

The worst part was the quiet apathy of the other students. Mello supposed their silence could have stemmed from fear; after all, Acer and his group of "friends" would have no qualms about beating down dissent.

That was a bald-faced lie, and Mello knew it. Their silenced stemmed not from fear, but from _condescension._

If there was one thing Mello hated, it was self-important _idiots._

"I see why you were mad at L," he said flatly. "This isn't what I would call a nurturing environment."

"Keep your voice down." Matt's pencil raced across the paper, copying down the perch diagram. _Bloody terminology._ Dorsal fin, pectoral fin, lateral line… "I don't need the trouble."

"Do you care about him?" Mello tossed the question out casually as he returned to his own work. Matt's mouth twitched.

"I can't, Mello. I…pity him, I guess." Matt shrugged and looked over at his friend. "I can't help him. Darwinian survival, remember?"

Mello nodded and glanced over at Acer, who was talking with a trio of his subordinates in the corner. They were arguing over a piece of paper, jabbing at different points and trying to make their cases.

"They're going to be doing more 'recruiting' today, aren't they?"

"_Drop it,_ Mello."

"Yeah."

The door opened abruptly. Mrs. Larkson, a cup of long-cooled coffee in her hand, glanced around the room. "Acer, Peter, Linel, Martin. Return to your seats, please."

Acer grinned and flipped her a lazy salute. "Yes'm. Sorry."

Larkson's gaze flicked away from him as she returned to her seat. Mello saw the blood rush to her face as she turned to her papers. "Yes, well. I trust that you all have the diagrams down."

In the back of the room, Leo looked up at her, an expression of disbelief stamped across his face. Matt sighed—what had he expected? Pity? Intervention? "Yes, Leo?" Larkson asked frostily. "Is something wrong?"

Leo glanced back down. "No, marm. Sorry."

"Please refrain from unnecessary displays in the future, Leo." Larkson rose and moved to the board. "Now, in regards to tomorrow's dissection—"

Mello was out of his seat before Matt could stop him. He lunged out the door and grabbed Acer's shoulder. "_Hey._"

"Oh, _fuck_," Matt muttered, jumping to his feet.

Acer turned around and glanced down at the slighter blonde. "Yeah? Something bothering you?"

Mello grinned and released his shoulder. "Yes, actually." His smirk faded. "What exactly makes you so high-and-mighty, after all?"

Acer's "friends" had already made it out of the classroom. Peter glanced backwards, fear sparking across his face. Acer waved him off. "C'mon, Mello," he said cheerily. "Let's talk in the hallway, shall we?"

Matt followed closely on Mello's heels. What the fuck was up with Acer?

As soon as they were out of Larkson's range of vision, Acer folded his arms, looming over Mello. "Look, kid, I won't be bothering you, so I don't see—"

"—Is that so?" Mello cut him off and scowled. "Tell me, what makes me so special?"

Matt wanted to hit his friend right then. You did _not_ toss back an offering like that when it was thrown at you. Was Mello _blind?_ Matt had had to work his ass off to gain the ounce of protection his second-place position afforded, and here Acer was handing immunity to Mello on a platter.

Acer shrugged. "Look, that kid had it coming," he snapped. "If not from me, than from someone else. I may only be seventh, but at least I know how the world works."

"Seventh?" Mello folded his own arms. "Last I heard, you were sixth. What happened?"

Acer's fingers twitched. Matt was beginning to get worried—why the hell was Acer holding back?

"Who told you that?" Acer asked sharply, glaring at Matt. "This third-place has-been?"

Matt's lips parted. "Third place?"

Mello scowled. "What are—"

"You don't know," Acer said finally, a laugh building in his throat. "Both of you. You don't _know_!" He grinned. "If I were you, Mello, I wouldn't be listening that dog, now that you've got your ranking. Second only to Near, you know that? Check the lists if you don't—"

Mello punched Acer full in the face. Acer's skull slammed into the wall. He reached up to touch his split lip, disbelief writing itself across his face. "_Fuck_—"

Mello gripped Acer's chin and yanked it down, forcing the older boy to look him in the face. "Listen to me, you _idiot_," Mello hissed. "I highly recommend _shutting up_ about things that _you don't know._ Now, if you'll excuse me, we're leaving." Mello let go and turned around. "Come on, Matt."

Matt's eyes slid past Acer. "I—yeah. I'm coming."

Matt's eyes lingered on the lists when he went to get their food. He had volunteered to get dinner, tonight. Normally, they bolted down the food and then made for the library. Matt was beginning to wonder if he felt up to that.

_Near._

_Mello._

_Matt._

Matt flashed Cook a weak smile when he reached the front of the line. She frowned. "Is something on your mind, Matt?"

"I'm fine."

He set Mello's tray in front of him silently before slipping into his own seat. Mello glanced up sharply. "Matt—"

"—Don't."

"I'm sorry."

Matt refused to meet his gaze and shoveled a mouthful of food into his mouth. "Don't apologize."

"_Matt_, look at me."

Matt did, and Mello wondered if he regretted the demand. "What, Mello? You've earned it."

"Earned _what_, Matt? Bloody hell, _talk_ to me."

Matt's gaze flicked back down to his meal. "Earned my deference. I think I've told you before, Mello. The rankings are law."

"I don't bloody care about the rankings."

"That's a pity." Matt met his gaze again. "Isn't that what our game was about, Mello? Winning?" Matt's lip curled into a mockery of his normal smile.

"You said you didn't care about the rankings."

Matt shrugged. "Be that as it may, Mello, the sparring's over." He stood and lifted his tray, suddenly devoid of appetite.

"Good night, Mello."

"_Matt!_"

* * *

Ba-dum-dum. So, L returns, Matt's mad at the world, and Acer's being an ass. Poor Mello. I wonder what shall happen next...?

Oh, and I referred to Watari as Wammy earlier because I figured the kids would know him as Wammy.

Meh. This is a really, really long chapter, isn't it? 3k words. I hope it was decent! Next chapter: Near, more L, a mystery, and a case to solve. I shall say no more. As always, reviews are loved, and constructive criticism is welcome. I bid thee ado.

January 22nd, 2008. 7:26 PM


	8. Scars

Matt forced the air out of his windpipe as he peered out the cracked door. It wouldn't do to be heard breathing, not now. The trick of cutting off his breath was one perfected a long time ago, when he had been nothing but a cowering piece of prey.

Mello rushed by him in a flurry of curses, blind to Matt's hiding spot. The gamer inhaled in a hiss of air and shut the door. He rocked back on his heels and clambered past the broom rack and hunched underneath the sink, secure in the darkness of his old hideout. When was the last time he had been here? He hadn't needed the old janitor's closet since—

—Oh. Right.

_Acer's fists slammed into his back, his stomach, his face, battering at him in a senseless flurry of violence. Matt closed his eyes, blind to it all—the pain, the snarled insults, the thin trickle of warmth coursing down his face. He was blind, and numb, and he could care less, because he had _won.

_He grinned up at Acer through a swollen eye and a split lip. "Hey," he said. "This doesn't make a difference, you know."_

_Acer's lip curled back, twisting a face already mottled with primal anger and loathing. "Doesn't it?"_

That had been the last time he had needed to come here, the last time he had been forced into—into _that,_ into the humiliating display of brutality. He had trumped Acer, that day, and the next morning Roger had politely called Acer down to the office and informed him in no uncertain terms that, now that Matt was in second place, he was not to inflict bodily harm upon him.

When Matt had heard, he couldn't quite decide whether to laugh or to scream. Instead, he did neither. That had been the day his mask of apathy had hardened into something that was never to be pried away—_could_ never be pried away, because Matt had come to understand that all he had was his pride, and his ranking, and nobody else was about to prop him up.

He had flown past Acer, from tenth place a year before that, to second, and it had felt damned good. Second place bought his battered and broken ribs a respite; it gave the delicate bones in his nose time to heal into a semblance of order; it allowed the bruises to fade, first from rich purples to sallow yellows and finally to the pale gleam of white skin.

And now—now—

Now, Matt was bloody _pissed off_, and he didn't care if Mello was fucking angry. Hell, the idiot probably didn't even know what he had done. _Mello_ never had problems with the others; _Mello_ had never had to fend for himself in an orphanage run by wolves. And now it was bloody_ Matthais_ who was left out in the cold, robbed by the one person who had somehow managed to break past his façade of apathy, the only one who had ever looked at him and _seen_, and it was _all wrong, _all of it. What good was third place, when Matt was just some beanpole kid whose bones would break all the easier after all of his years of second?

The warmth running down his cheeks surprised him, and at first he was jolted back to two years ago, and there was blood dripping from the gash in his forehead. But then his fingers reached up to wipe it away, instinctively, and even in the dark he knew that they weren't stained red.

--

Mello's scrambling feet faded to a stop. Matt wasn't here—wasn't anywhere, as far as Mello could tell. He wasn't in the academic wing, or the cafeteria, or the girls' quarters on the other side of the building, or in the halls of the boys' quarters, and Mello was, for the first time since he had arrived at Wammy, at a loss. Chasing after Matt—chasing after a lost cause, really, because something had obviously snapped, and Mello hadn't the faintest idea of how to repair it.

He hadn't even considered this possibility. It had always been humming at the back of his mind, right alongside Andrew's voice, but Mello had shoved them both to the outer reaches of his consciousness. He had known he was smart, known that he was as good as Matt was and that he could beat Matt, on average, three times out of five. The margin had been so narrow, though, that there had never been that rift, that sharp divide, which seemed to define the rest of his interactions with the world.

He had been holed up in his little cardboard castle, brought to the level of a thieving _rat_, and Matt had chased after him and dragged him off to Wammy. And for once, Mello wasn't a freak; he wasn't ridiculed for his genius; he wasn't shunted to the side while the other children tossed frightened glances over their shoulders at the strange_ thing._ Instead, life had become a routine of drilling and studying and just plain _learning,_ pure and simple and good. Mixed with that were the lazy days of Puzzle Board and chocolate and sunlight filtering through library windows, simple things that Mello hadn't realized he was missing until Matt had literally forced them upon him. And he had dared to think that maybe, _maybe,_ he wasn't really evil and worthless, and maybe, life could actually be good.

And then the candy-coated surface was stripped away, and he saw that the rotting interior was just as sour as it had ever been. Matt's reaction had been so—so _same_, so much the same, and he had seen Andrew's anger in Matt's eyes and heard Andrew's accusations in Matt's voice, and it had _burned_.

And now anger was trickling through his arms and down into his fingertips like fire, and he just wanted to fucking drag Matt out of whatever hole he was hiding in and beat some honesty out of him, but Matt wasn't here. Matt was gone, just like Andrew; and just like Andrew, maybe what Mello had seen had never really been there at all.

Mello found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the riot of wires and gadgetry squirreled under a bed across the room, and the chocolate tasted like cinders in his mouth, and the fire wouldn't go away.

--

"Matt."

Matt's head jerked up and hit the rim of the sink. He winced and ran his fingers through his hair groggily, blinking in the sudden light. "Huh?"

Roger's lined face smiled down at him. "Hiding in the janitor's closet, Matt?"

Matt scowled and crawled out from under the sink. Fire ran up his spine as he stood; apparently, his back didn't appreciate the unusual sleeping position. Roger shook his head and opened the door still farther, letting a flood of light into the cramped closet. "Come on, now. We had to track you down from the security feeds. L wishes to see you." He held up a hand when Matt opened his mouth to protest. "It's not the usual thing. Near and Mello have been summoned as well."

Matt's mouth snapped shut. Damned if he was going to let those two overtake him.

"Lead on, then."

--

Mello toyed with the sleeve of his generic-issue T-shirt while L downed truffle after truffle. The detective was upset, apparently, and sweets seemed to be his crutch. Mello could understand that, but he had left his own store of chocolate in his room. It tasted too much like ash and burnt-out fairy tales. He didn't know why they were here, or what was going on, but he was having too much trouble stitching together something resembling composure to be bothered.

Next to him, Near's finger twirled absently around a strand of hair. Mello might have been curious as to the identity of the prodigy among prodigies on another night. Now, though, all he could do was gaze at the washed-out husk of a child and wonder if Matt hated Near, too.

L crushed another truffle between his molars and glanced up as the door opened. "Thank you, Roger. Matt, I am glad you deigned to join us."

Matt had no eyes for L. His eyes met Mello's and held his once-friend's gaze for a smoldering second, and anger clashed with anger and guilt clashed with fear. Both boys looked away as one; it was too raw, too foreign. All that each had left the other was their outward façade.

L watched the exchange carefully, silently, before motioning to the chair next to Near. "Matt. Sit, please."

Matt nodded and lowered himself into the chair. L leaned forward and handed each of them a thin sheet of printer paper, his owl's eyes devoid of emotion. "Please look at this."

Matt took the paper from L's hands gingerly. It was a photograph—a still scene from a security feed, by the look of it, showing the limp body of a ten-year-old boy, sprawled in front of one of the classrooms. His hair obscured his face, but Matt could see the telltale clumping of blood-matted hair. His shirt was gone. A line of purple gashes twined around his ribs; from the odd angle of his leg, it was broken.

As of yet, the silence had yet to be breached. Matt said the first thing that came to his tongue: "So?"

Mello's lips parted in faint surprise. L leaned back in his chair and slipped his thumb into his mouth thoughtfully. _Disdainfully._ "What do you mean, Matt?"

Matt placed the picture on L's desk. "You never bothered any other time, L." His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, but the challenge was there. "Why now?"

L met his gaze. "That boy is Leo. I believe he was in your Biology class, Matt." L paused and looked away, staring at some point above their heads. "Leo is dead."

Mello was out of his chair with fisted hands before he knew what exactly had happened. "What do you mean? He couldn't have—Acer wouldn't—"

"I never said it was Acer." L still refused to meet their gazes, even with Mello's ragged breaths coming scant inches from his face. "I do not know who is responsible…yet."

Matt's teeth clamped down on his knuckles. Dead. Leo, a scrawny kid, destined to become just another genius in an apathetic pack. Leo, who had still believed in justice until today; Leo, who Matt hadn't been able to care about, because this was what happened when you dared to stand out.

"The security feed."

Matt had almost forgotten that Near was there. As always, he had the talent of fading into himself, collapsing, disappearing, like the ghosts his clothing brought to mind. It was a learned talent, one that Matt had always envied. "You have this picture. Where is the security feed?"

Mello collapsed back into his chair and gripped the armrests tightly. L shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "The file was corrupted. We have a blind spot of approximately two hours. After that, the still you see here was seen on the cameras." L bit down on his thumb, and for once, it occurred to Matt that maybe his derision was directed not at his pupils, but at himself. "I am…busy, working on my current case, and I have little spare time. In the interval until we catch the one responsible, heightened security measures will be taken. However…I believe it is in Wammy House's best interests to have other detectives than me working on the case. I cannot trust myself to—"

"Outsiders," Matt said. "You're going to bring outsiders."

"No." L shook his mass of ragged Sonic-hair and met Matt's eyes. "I am enlisting you. All of you." He rolled a truffle along the rim of his plate and sighed. "I am sorry. I should be requesting your assistance. Near. Mello. Matt. You will not be forced into this. I will investigate on my own in any event, and this crime shall not go unheeded. However…I would appreciate your help."

This was something new, something foreign, and Matt just wanted to be back to the brutal days when he had hated life—hated it, but understood it. Matt had never seen L waver; he had never seen the thin set of his angry lips; he had never heard him direct his reproach at himself. Matt swallowed the cotton taste of tension. "This is a test."

"Yes." The simplicity of L's admittance—the plain substance of honesty—was what did it. Matt nodded and brushed his fingertips over the picture of Leo's body—bruised, bloodied, a mistake.

"I will."

L nodded, solemnly, and looked next to Near. "Near?"

"Yes."

A pause. "Mello?"

Mello nodded, mutely. L sighed and tapped the intercom button. "Wammy."

"Yes, L?"

"Please prepare their laptops with the requisite programs and access codes."

"Of course."

L flicked the intercom off and lowered his eyes to the truffle plate. "Thank you. It is still very early, so I would suggest bed. Do be careful. Tomorrow morning Wammy will equip you with anything you might need." It was odd, to hear L's brisk masking of emotion, and jarringly similar. _L grew up here, too._ "And—Matt?"

Matt looked up sharply. "Yeah?"

"Please do not sleep in the janitor's closet. There is no lock on that door, if I recall correctly. We would not want you to be hurt."

--

They walked down the dim hallway in silence. Near had vanished, in his typical way, and was no doubt off to his room on another hall. It left just the two of them, and the silence—a heavy barrier that neither was quite willing to breach just yet.

To Matt's surprise, the lights in their room were already off—it made sense, really; the glowing display on his clock declared that it was nearly three in the morning. They lay for a moment, each on their own bed, before Mello spoke up.

"Matt."

Matt closed his eyes and willed Mello to shut up. He didn't need this, not now. Leo's face kept flashing on his eyelids, warring for supremacy with the memory of Acer's leer and the knowledge that yes, Matt was fair game again.

"Matt, talk to me."

"Why?"

Mello's nails dug farther into his palms. This was not happening; it _could_ not be happening, because he was not going to let Matt act like Andrew. "Because I know you're mad at me, but I want to know _why._"

"You want to know why?" Matt couldn't keep the laughter out of his voice. "You want to know bloody _why_, Mello? Didn't you see that damned picture of Leo?"

Mello was silent. Of course he had _seen_ it, damn it, what did Matt think? He waited; Matt had a tendency to talk in circles, but he would eventually get to his point, and Mello needed this.

"Let me tell you something, Mello." Matt opened his eyes and stared up at the dark abyss of the ceiling. "I used to be Leo. Did you know that?"

"No."

"I used to be just another kid. I was tenth place to Acer's fifth, I was scrawny, I was quiet. I've been at Wammy longer than most of the others, did you know that? Fat lot of good it did me. I was stupid and I was slow, but most of all I guess I was just too damned naïve—I didn't want to believe that manipulation was a necessary skill, so I didn't have a pack of my own." Matt barked a laugh. "Acer wasn't the only one who thought I would make a good recruit, you know. Linel used to have his own pack before Acer broke him, and he would come around to my room, too. There were others—Dray and Red and Runner, but a lot of them don't bother anymore. That's why I learned how to hack the security feeds, you know? It tipped me off to when they were coming." Matt rolled onto his side, looking over at the splotch of darkness that he knew was Mello. "And then I snagged second place, and you know what, Mello? I was safe."

"And now you're not." It wasn't a question. Mello had seen enough of Wammy to know that Matt was telling the truth; it was a relief, really, to know.

"First is assured safety; second barely makes the cut. What good is third, Mello?"

"What good is first?" Mello shot back. "Do you really think that first keeps you safe, Matt?"

"You didn't grow up here, Mello! You didn't have to put up with—with any of this. You _never_ had to deal with any of it—"

"Don't be too sure." There was a rustle of cloth. "Turn on the goddamn lights."

Mello wasn't sure what he was doing, but Matt wasn't the only one with fucking problems, and so long as Matt was lashing out at Wammy, and not at Mello, then Mello had a chance. He wasn't going to blow it.

Matt jabbed the button on his remote, more than happy to oblige, because Matt was fucking mad and he needed a target. Then the lights came on, and Matt froze, and Mello met his eyes.

Mello's fingers brushed over his bare chest, outlining the latticework of scars and ridges that crossed his abdomen. "Were you expecting this, Matt?"

Matt couldn't help but stare. The mottled scars took on every form Matt knew, and many he didn't. White scars curled across most of Mello's chest, broken by splotches of red skin—burnt skin, Matt's brain supplied, burnt skin that had never regained its color. A dark patch curled over his hip like a flower of flame—a brand. And then there was the jagged streak that marked where home-sewn stitches still lay buried under his skin.

Mello watched the shift in Matt's expression carefully. The anger was gone, replaced by something more complex—resignation, almost, or understanding. Mello ran his fingers over his ragged chest again and then pulled his T-shirt back over his head. "Was that what you were expecting, Matt?"

"I…" Matt swallowed. "Why?"

Mello shrugged. "Remember Andrew?"

Matt shifted, recalling Mello's violent reaction to the tolling of the bells that first time in the library—bells that, after Mello's fit, L had ordered silenced. "Who was he?"

"My brother." Mello reached for his chocolate and began peeling back the foil. "Being first doesn't guarantee you safety, Matt. He was…jealous, I guess, because I got all the attention."

"And he did _that_ to you?"

"Don't pretend like you haven't had the same." Mello broke off a piece of his chocolate. "The only difference was the perpetrator, right? I've seen the way you walk. You're always _watching_, always looking, and your first instinct is to bolt."

"We're more alike than I thought, aren't we?"

Mello grinned, relieved by Matt's response. "Yeah."

Matt flipped off the lights and Mello flopped back into the bed. And in spite of the fact that there was a murderer somewhere in Wammy, they were both smiling into the darkness, because for the first time in a long time, something had actually turned out _right._

* * *

Another day; another chapter. I took advantage of the snow day and polished this one off. I -think- I liked the first bit; none too sure about the last section. Critique is welcome; reviews are loved. What do you lot think of the pasts I've sculpted for the two of them? Cruel? Certainly. And now, to top it all off, we have a murderer on the loose in the orphanage. Oh, noes. Near's character is going to be played up a bit more in the chapters to come, I think. I do so love Near.

As always, many thanks to my lovely readers. You make me hoppy.

January 25th, 2008. 5:47 PM.


	9. Wires

**A/N:** This might pop up, and I know I said it before, but I feel like repeating myself because I win the game, savvy? Watari is referred to as Wammy because I'm assuming that that's what the kids know him as. "Watari" is an alias, and the orphanage _is_ called Wammy House, so...

Replies to anonymous reviewers shall henceforth be replied to at the beginning of the chapter.

**JC:** Thank you so much! I'm glad you're enjoying it. Don't worry; I'm quite aware of the fact that Mello has a bit of a way to go as far as eventual life goals. I figured that, as Mello had yet to meet Near when the story began, explaining their rivalry would be a good thing to work into the story. I'm currently working out the kinks in my "great plan," as you so wonderfully put it, never fear! Thank you very much for the review. :

**Disclaimer:** Death Note does not belong to me. I wish it did, but it doesn't. (Why do I always forget the disclaimer?)

Okey-dokey. That is all. Enjoy.

* * *

Mello was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, because his mother was home, and they were in London, and his name was Mihael, and it was all wrong. 

"_Andrew," their mother said curtly, looking up from her work as his brother walked in the door. "You left your towel on the floor this morning."_

_Andrew nodded and shot Mihael a glance, then turned back to his mother. "Sorry."_

"_Sorry? Is that all?"_

"_Yes'm."_

_Mihael turned back to his homework, slowly retracing the lines of his work. He was nearly finished, but he wanted it to drag on as long as possible. Their mother snorted and bent over her papers again, disdain curling around her lips._

_And then it was night, and his door was creaking open, and they both knew that their mother was fast asleep in her bedroom with a bottle in her hand. "Andrew," Mihael said aloud, and the silhouette in his doorway grinned._

"_Hey, Mihael."_

"_Don't call me that."_

"_Why?" Andrew closed the door and leaned against it. "Do you know what I would give to be called Andrei?"_

"_Don't."_

"_They cared enough to give you a real name. I'm just a fucking average Joe."_

"_Don't, Andrew."_

_Andrew shrugged and reached into his pocket. The light from the street below filtered in through the window, and Mihael caught the glimmer of a silver blade._

"_Andrew, I mean it. Not tonight."_

"_Who gave you a say in the matter? You're being awfully assertive."_

_The knife was out in the open now, and Andrew was sitting beside him on the bed. Mihael met his gaze, and grinned. "Why the grin, Mihael?" The knife grazed the side of his cheek, but he wasn't afraid; Andrew wouldn't risk such an obvious wound._

"_I told you." He took the knife blade and squeezed, watching as the blood welled crimson in his palm. It hurt, but that was okay. "I'm not Mihael."_

_Andrew glared at him, eyes blazing. "What?"_

"_I'm Mello. The rules have changed."_

Mello woke up with a smile on his lips.

--

Matt shrugged into his shirt and shut the lid of his laptop. Mello drummed his fingers impatiently on the rim of the doorknob. "You ready yet?"

Matt scowled and stuffed a riot of wires into his bag before standing. "Yeah."

Mello rolled his eyes and pulled at the doorknob—only to meet with the hard resistance of a lock. "Hey, what the hell?"

Matt leaned over his shoulder and frowned. "It's locked?"

"Yep."

"That's impossible. There's no lock on the outside of the door."

"Well, apparently there is." Mello frowned. "Prank?"

"More likely a security measure. "I'll bet Wammy did it, in wake of last night."

"Last night?"

"Leo."

"Oh." Mello grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "Christ. How could I forget?"

Matt slumped back onto his bed. "Yeah. I don't think any bloke's ever messed up that badly before, with an introduction. It's a touch scary, you know?"

Mello shook his head. "An introduction?"

"That's what I call it."

Mello took a seat on his own bed. "Andrew used to call it our 'game,' if I remember correctly."

"We're pretty messed up, aren't we?"

Mello crooked a smile. "Yeah."

Matt opened his mouth to ask another question, but the door swung open to reveal Aaron's haggard face. "You two. Out of bed, please. We're to escort you to breakfast and classes from now on."

"It's because of Leo, right?"

Aaron sighed. "Please, Matt. Not now."

Matt clambered to his feet and grabbed his bag. "Coming."

--

The cafeteria was abuzz with speculation over the new security measures. Matt and Mello ate in silence, hunched over bowls of cold cereal. There were a number of theories darting about in the crowded cafeteria atmosphere, and a few had actual merit.

"Ten pounds says it's an external threat."

"Five says we've got outsiders coming to Wammy."

"It's something serious, obviously. Let's try cracking the system after break."

"My bet's that L's trying to cut down on packs."

"Stupid." Matt's head jerked up at the sound of Acer's voice. "L wouldn't bother with that, and if he did, it'd be damned irritating."

"Speaking of the packs, where's Leo?" Linel inquired. Matt shot a glance across the room at the younger boy. He looked serious enough. "He was supposed to be here, wasn't he, Acer?"

Matt could barely make out the smoldering cloud that passed over Acer's features from this distance, but he heard the anger well enough. "I'll take care of it, Linel."

Linel swallowed. "Sorry."

"Pathetic, isn't it?"

Matt turned back to meet Mello's gaze. "Yeah." He balanced his spoon on the tip of his index finger and looked up at his friend curiously. "Do you think it was Acer?"

"Can't say." Mello scowled and glanced over at the older boy. "I…I think he's smarter than that, don't you?"

"You haven't seen him mad." Matt began spinning the spoon around his finger in a series of lazy arcs. "Then again, Leo doesn't really have—_didn't have,_ Christ, that's tough—the spine to inspire that much anger. Defiance, victory, condescension…those would set Acer off, definitely, but Leo? Leo was…weak. You saw him."

"You still don't care about him."

The spoon clattered to the table. Matt stared at the dropped spoon for a moment, then sighed. "Hey, look, I know—"

"—It's fine. It's just…"

"Interesting?"

Mello's lips twitched. "Well, I've never known you to be dull. But, honestly…you're so _numb_, you know?"

"How did you react?"

Mello's gaze dropped to his own bowl. "I did the opposite, I guess," he said slowly. "I…lashed out, at myself or at my surroundings. I screamed. I yelled. I ended up running away, you know? If I was fire, then you're ice."

"Ice?" Matt crooked a grin. "I'm not sure I should be flattered."

"Well, that was my intention."

"Ass," Matt retorted comfortably.

"I know."

--

They brought their trays back up to Cook and made their way to the academic wing, only to be stopped by Aaron. "Mello, Matt," the older man said. "Wammy wants to see you."

Matt and Mello exchanged glances. "You stalking us or something, Aaron?" Matt inquired easily. "This marks the second time today."

Aaron sighed. "Matt."

"Yeah, sure. We'll follow."

Aaron left them waiting in Wammy's office. It was a sparsely furnished room, much like L's office: plain and functional. Near was already sitting in one of the chairs, toying with a strand of his hair. He glanced up at the sound of their arrival.

"Matt."

"Near," Matt returned, slipping into the chair next to him. Mello took the chair on Matt's right. Mello studied the albino kid carefully. _Near…_

Mello could have chosen to be irked by the albino's lack of attention, but instead, he took the time to study his new "rival." His psychology professor would be proud—behavioral analysis, after all, was a worthwhile skill.

The most obvious aspect of Near was the boy's silence. He acted so…different, unreal, like a ghost that couldn't quite materialize on the human plane. From the few minutes Mello had spent in his presence, it was clear that emotional displays were definitely not his forte. Mello's mouth twitched. It was obvious, wasn't it? Like all of them, Near was broken.

_Not so tough, are you, Near?_

Mello knew a defense mechanism when he saw one.

"Matt," Near said again, in that same flat monotone, "have you broken into the security system yet?"

Matt blinked. "I—yeah. A while ago. You knew that already, right?"

Near continued to fix Matt with a pensive stare. "Yes. I simply wished to verify it."

Matt shrugged. "Yeah, well." He glanced over at Mello. "You could talk to Mello, you know. You're being rude, and he _is_ in second."

Near gave Mello a cursory glance. "No. He is not a threat."

Mello wanted to say something. He wanted to scream and latch onto Near's collar and protest that _I'm worth something, you moron_, but there was ice trickling down the back of his spine and a memory of the kiss of steel against his chest, and Mello couldn't move.

Near watched his paralysis placidly, but Mello wasn't fooled. The albino offered him a ghost of a half-smile—part apology, part amusement, but mostly condescension—and turned back to studying the floor, a piece of hair already twirling around his fingers.

Mello's face burned. He scowled and slumped backwards into his own chair and closed his eyes.

Fucking _bastards._

The door opened then, thank God, and Wammy made his way into the room with a black case tucked under his arm. He nodded to them and set the case onto his desk. "Good morning."

The three students mumbled their own greetings. Wammy smiled and unclipped the buckles on the case. Upon opening, it revealed the sleek forms of a trio of laptops, as well as four manila folders stuffed to the brim. The old man handed each of them a computer and a folder, keeping a folder for himself, then cleared his throat.

"L has decided to have each of you to investigate this tragedy, as you know," he began. "I will assist you with any information you deem necessary. Inside the folder you will find the access codes to Raven, our master database. Matt, I expect you know that we will be immediately replacing them after this affair is closed."

Matt grinned. "Yes, sir."

"Good. I also expect you to refrain from implanting any of your toy programs within our system, because I will be personally watching for such things."

"What—oh. Er. Yes, sir." _Damn._

Wammy's smile grew. "I'm glad we are in understanding. Also in the folder, you will find enclosed a brief profile of Leo, including his class schedule, associates, and a detail of his injuries." Wammy sighed and thumbed through one of the files. "A heinous crime, certainly, and a dreadful tragedy. I'm afraid we may have to increase our security to ensure that this never happens again." The old man shook his head. "But your concern as of now is bringing the criminal to justice, as is always the case. From the Raven database you will be able to pull up security feeds and any other miscellaneous data that has been collected, no matter how trivial. You will be released from class for the next week, possibly longer; you may work individually or together, as you see fit. Do you have any questions?"

The three boys shook their heads in unison. Wammy nodded. "Very well, then. Included in Raven is a messenger service. My identity is programmed into your database already. If you have any questions, contact me through Raven. Understood?"

Again, three nods. Wammy's hand slid under his desk and the door swung open. "Good. You are dismissed."

Matt and Mello immediately tucked their laptops and folders under their arms and veered off towards the library, leaving Near to his own devices. It was _their_ library more than it was Wammy's, now; Mello had yet to see another kid wandering about inside.

"Hey," Matt said once Near was gone. "Let's go back to the room."

"Huh? Why?"

"I have some things that could help us," Matt replied enigmatically. "You'll see."

Once they made it to their room, Matt dived under his bed. Mello looked warily at the tangle of cords that crowded around his friend's body. "Er…Matt?"

"Hang on." Matt's feet kicked out, almost catching Mello in the ankles, as he writhed farther under the bed. "Christ…almost got it, hang on…" There was a loud _snap_ and Matt began to work his way out. "Got it."

By the time he finally emerged, Matt had a bag of CDs clutched tightly to his chest, as well as a riot of wiring and his original laptop. "Jesus, Matt. You need help?"

"Yeah—here, take my laptop, and you _better _not drop it…"

They staggered into the library, each with a clumsy armful of Matt's gadgetry. Mello let the mass of electronics clatter onto the window seat. Matt yelped indignantly. "I told you to be _careful_!"

"It's fine!"

"It better be!" Matt deposited his load gently and moved to search the wood paneling for an outlet. "Here we go." He reached for a surge protected and plugged it in, thereby multiplying the number of outlets by…twenty-four?

"Matt, how many bloody things do you _have_ here?"

"Not too many," Matt replied calmly, rummaging in his pile. "Just give me a second to get this all hooked up."

"How are we even going to _use_ all this?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Matt untangled his laptop's power supply and connected it to the outlet. "We'll need to run a data analysis on all of the kids Leo knew, who he talked to, as well as all the kids in the packs—Acer's, Runner's, the whole gambit. Then we compare their schedules. I plan on getting my old laptop to do the grunt work."

"Then what do _we_ do?"

"Easy." Matt plugged in another riot of wiring that looked something like a stack of CD drives. "We'll watch the security feeds. How long do you figure it'll take?"

Mello plugged in his own new laptop and booted it up. "Well, we've got to look at—what was the database called?"

"Raven."

"Right. We ought to start by running that and having a quick look around, yeah? Then we'll know how much stuff there is to deal with…"

"Great, just let me finish up…"

Matt finally finished plugging all of his gadgetry in—Mello _still_ couldn't figure out what half the stuff was—and booted up his new laptop. "These are _nice_," he said appreciatively, scanning the specs. "Wammy's feeling generous."

"Mm. Hey, pass me a folder?"

"Here."

Mello scanned the list on the first page. "Main code: little a, big z, x, little h, two…"

He opened the shortcut to Raven and began to type in the codes. "These are so _long_."

Matt glanced over. "Five sixteen-digit alphanumeric codes? Not bad. Wammy's pretty serious about security."

"Fuck you. It's a _pain._" Mello finished punching in the codes and scanned the new display. It was a gray screen, divided into three panes: a narrow index column on the left, a messenger applet on the right, and a blank display field in the middle. He clicked on the first title in the index column. "Schedules. Think that'll be good?"

Matt leaned over his shoulder. "Yeah. Give it a try."

Mello double-clicked and watched as the array of data spread out over the display field. "Jesus _Christ_…"

The display field was filled with a chart showing every class in the school on the left-hand side and the name of every student on the top. All told, the statistics counter at the bottom informed him helpfully, there were twenty-four classes and three hundred forty-eight students, making for eight thousand, three hundred fifty-two cells.

"It's so _much_. How are we supposed to sift through this?"

"Mello?"

"Yeah?"

"This is just first period. We've got four times as much data just for the scheduling." Matt grinned at Mello's look of disgust and rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "_Relax._ It's not so bad. Look." He pointed at the screen. "Most of these kids aren't even in our grade. We can rule out the toddlers as the murderers."

"You sure about that?"

"I don't think a three-year-old could take on Leo," Matt remarked dryly. "Not that there's that many toddlers here, mind, but it's a start. Leave it to me. I'll start my old laptop on data analysis and we'll be able to index all of this crap into something vaguely related to Leo's schedule."

Mello grimaced. "This is _not_ what I thought casework would be like."

"What? You thought we were gonna play gumshoe?"

"Oh, shut _up_."

"Anyhow." Matt stretched and reached into his CD bag. "I'll take care of data analysis. Can you look at the tapes and try to spot Leo's last appearance?"

--

Mello grimaced and worked out a kink in his neck. "Christ, Matt," he mumbled, reaching for his chocolate. "What time is it?"

Matt glanced down at the display on his screen. "One-fifteen, why?"

"One…we've been working at this for how many hours?" Mello stretched and saved his work. "Bloody hell. I'm _hungry._" Mello bit into the chocolate bar with a savage _snap_. "Want to see what I've got?"

Matt winced and crawled over to Mello, navigating past the mound of wires despite the protests from his stiff joints. "Yeah. Sure."

Mello pulled up a series of display fields. "All right, then. Watch this." He tapped a few keys and a number of videos appeared on screen. "Ten o'clock—the official curfew. Leo's in his room. Come ten-thirty, he leaves to go to the bathroom—speaking of which, why are their cameras in the bloody bathroom?"

Matt rolled his eyes. "Roger's a voyeur, probably. Go on."

"Yep. Anyway, there's this kid in there, sleeping, which is pretty odd, but Leo ignores him. He wakes up partway through—see here?"

The video began playing. Matt peered at the screen. The cameras—while a higher resolution than Matt would have expected—weren't specific enough for him to make out the unfamiliar face. It was a short, dark-haired kid, with a purple bruise spreading across his face. Leo smiled apologetically at him when he stirred. The kid nodded and went back to sleep, curled in the corner of the bathroom. Mello paused the video. "Why do you figure he was sleeping there?"

"Safety?" Matt hazarded. "I can't say I laud his choice of hiding place if he was looking to escape the packs, though. It's too obvious."

"Yeah, because a janitor's closet is so demented nobody in their right mind would think of it."

"Exactly."

"Anyway." Mello flipped the next video on. "As we can see, he leaves the bathroom, then—for whatever reason—he doesn't go back to his room. Instead, he heads for the kitchens. I'm assuming he's heading for the kitchens, anyway, unless he's going to class at ten o'clock at night." The screen flipped between a series of security videos, each showing Leo from a different angle slowly making his way down the halls. He looked normal enough—a bit nervous, a bit groggy, meandering towards the kitchen. "And then, at ten forty-three, we lose him."

"What?"

"Well, you're the tech guy, not me. Look." Mello pointed to the video display. "This is the last one—Camera 17g. And then Camera 17h doesn't have him."

"That's impossible." Matt leaned closer to the screen. "Let me see." He frowned. "Message me the codes for that video. It's got to have been tampered with."

Mello looked at him in exasperation. "Come _on_, Matt. Let's get lunch." He waved the chocolate under his friend's nose. "Aren't you starved?"

Matt was already crawling back to his own laptop. "Just give me a sec, Mello. Send me the names of those videos, yeah? It'll only take a minute."

Mello groaned. "Matt—"

Matt leaned over his laptop intently. "17g and 17h, you said?"

Mello scowled and shut the lid of his laptop. "Matt, come on." He picked his way over the riot of wiring and grabbed his friend's shoulder. "We can leave this stuff here."

Matt waved him off impatiently. "I told you," he snapped, fingers tapping away at the keys, "this won't take more than a—"

The laptop fan ground to a halt with a _whir_ and the screen blacked out. Matt jumped to his feet, staring furiously at the blank screen. "What the _fuck_ was that?"

Mello slowly sank into a sitting position and examined his friend thoughtfully. "Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Someone knows what we're doing."

* * *

Tra-la-la. More filler, if you ask me, but it's necessary. And yes, I threw in a dream sequence in the beginning. Don't shoot me. Did you know--Boredom is an excellent Muse? Much of this was typed during English class. Yes, _typed_. As in, I had my laptop out and was alternating between watching anime and writing this the whole time. That class is a joke. At least Boredom doesn't drive _me_ to try and purge the world of all evil. (coughLightcoughcough) **Reviews are loved!**

January 29th, 2008. 7:00 PM


	10. Search

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Well, I suppose the words are, so if you plagiarize, you shall be shot. But DN in all of its glory belongs to...someone else. Go look it up.

**AN:** Sorry this one took a relatively long time to put up. It's been, what, six days? Not _too_ bad, I suppose, but still. I struggled with this one. Hopefully it's palatable. :)

Enjoy.

* * *

They stared at the dead laptop in silence for a moment, Mello's last words hanging in the air between them: 

"_Someone knows what we're doing."_

Matt pushed the power button with trembling fingers. His laptop beeped irritably and started up again with a whir of the fan. He closed his eyes, relieved. "Thank god."

"Matt," Mello pressed, "Maybe you shouldn't be using that laptop. Someone managed to break in, obviously."

"I…" Matt hesitated. "Christ." He groaned and rolled onto his back, staring miserably at the library ceiling. "Mello, no one should be able to get into my system."

"No one should be able to commit murder in an orphanage, either, but somebody did," Mello retorted, but his usual sarcasm fell flat. Matt closed his eyes.

"Mello?"

"What?"

"Are we in danger?"

The question had been posed apathetically, as if Matt had been simply inquiring about the weather. Mello looked at his friend carefully. Matt's face was slack, as was his body; he looked for all the world like he was about to drift off into sleep. Mello knew that posture; it was an intelligent defense, because slack muscles meant that bones were less likely to break. After enough beatings, any kid with their brains began to take on that lax pose—it was the common thread separating Wammy's bullies from the victims, the wolves from the prey. Matt had been comfortably secure in second place for enough years that it wasn't a constant, but Mello had seen the way he immediately relaxed at the first signs of trouble. Instincts died hard.

Mello had to acknowledge that Matt's unconscious caution had significant merit. Someone—whoever it was—knew what they were up to. That someone had managed to beat the life out of Leo—whether it was intentional or not, it had happened, and that meant…

"Yeah. Yeah, we probably are." Mello grimaced. "But…I mean, this is Wammy. I think that to kill twice…"

"More evidence."

"Exactly."

Blue eyes met green. This was a house of geniuses, true, but it was also a house of brutality. Survival was assured; this much they both knew, but it was the question of just how close to the threshold the human body could be pushed before it broke.

Twin smiles spread across mirrored faces. This was something they both knew.

--

They moved in tandem.

Matt commandeered a trolley with Cook's blessings, and they piled his mass of gadgetry onto the racks. The library, they agreed, wasn't safe; it was too isolated, too familiar; anyone who knew their habits or who had access to the cameras would know where to find them. Matt had a number of battery packs reserved for just such an occasion, leftovers from the days when the packs had come hunting through his room on a regular basis. They picked out a few choice spots in a number of scattered locations throughout the school, and they rotated through them at random intervals. Cook's kitchens, the hallway in front of the security room, the janitor's closet…

The actual job of research was fairly simple, if time-consuming. Mello was compiling a list of all the possible suspect students. Unsurprisingly, more than a few kids took it upon themselves to sneak out after curfew. This would have created a number of irritating issues with the security feeds—obviously, disabling the cameras on one's hall was a prerequisite to leaving one's room—but Matt discovered a "backdoor circuit" of camera feeds that none of them had noticed. It was a complete duplicate of the normal security system, but recorded in another location entirely; as such, none of the students had even learned of its existence, much less how to disable it.

Tricky bastard, he thought with a grin. Leave it to Roger to set up cameras that take two feeds. I can't believe nobody thought of this.

Granted, Matt himself had missed it, which was just a testament to the old man's abilities. Once this was all over, he would have to remember all of the different backdoors he had found, because he had a lurking suspicion that he hadn't explored a tenth of Raven's possibilities.

And then the guilt kicked in, and Matt sighed and went back to ineffective fiddling. There was no point to any of this, was there? He knew well enough what had happened.

Two days of routine analysis, and they reached something of an impasse. The list of possible suspects was composed of every kid who wasn't on the feeds during the security camera's two-hour blind spot, from ten-thirty to twelve-thirty. In all, fifteen students were unaccounted for at that time, and thirty-three cameras had been shut off or tampered with at one point or another. Mello's job right now was eliminating students from that group of fifteen, and profiling the rest.

Of the fifteen, three were what Matt sarcastically referred to as "alphas," or pack leaders; eight were lackeys, known subordinates to the main bullies; four were kids who were usually the victims. Mello was currently studying the files on the three bullies. Acer, Runner, and Seven—seventh, fifth, and eight place, respectively.

Seven was an angelic-looking brunette with an apparent cruel streak. She was one of the only girls to have a pack, but she didn't usually resort to bodily harm. Roger had written matter-of-fact reviews on the far-reaching extent of her skills at manipulation. Seven was smart, but not exceptionally so; she excelled in human studies and math rather than memorization. She was two years younger than they were—one year less than Leo had been.

Runner's picture was that of a bored fourteen-year-old with a ragged mass of dark hair and dull brown eyes. He was one of the "kindest" bullies—his pack seemed to be more a source of personal amusement than a functional terrorist body. He was known for the disinterested precision of his "persuasive" techniques; by all accounts he was more interested in studying his victims' reactions than in causing them pain. Biology, medicine, and the other sciences were his forte. His pack was shrinking due to his apathy, and he spent much of his time off the campus. Runner was due to graduate at the year's end.

Then, of course, there was Acer; he was by far the most brutal of the bunch. Runner and Seven kept packs out of boredom or practicality; Acer seemed to actually have an emotional investment in his. His behavioral profile had no surprises. What Mello hadn't realized was that Acer's pack was so big. According to his profile, seventeen students had fallen into his ranks, spanning ages seven to thirteen. If the display in the Biology room the other day was any indication, he was quick to pounce on new arrivals, too.

Mello sighed and bit down on his hand. Looking at their profiles was pointless. Murder couldn't be something that just happened; there had to be a reason in all of this mess. He couldn't find any possible motive by reading their files. Seven and Runner hadn't even known Leo, to Mello's knowledge, and Acer wouldn't have wanted to lose a new recruit. It was all so senseless…

"You making any headway?"

Matt's indolent voice drifted over from beneath the porcelain sink. Mello's mouth twitched. In any other circumstances, he would be laughing out loud—the sight of Matt hunched over underneath a sink, buried in a mess of wires and flashing lights, was too much to stomach. Funniest of all was that Matt couldn't grasp the sheer absurdity that Mello saw in the situation. It was just so…bizarre. The only reason Mello wasn't laughing was because then Matt would be obliged to fire back, which would result in a fight, which—while fun—wouldn't be terribly productive.

"Not really," he replied, finally answering his friend's question. "I just…it doesn't make sense, Matt. None of it. Tell me, why would any of these kids want to kill someone?"

Matt scowled and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, if I knew that, we would know who did it, wouldn't we?" He grimaced. "Sorry. Let's look at this logically. Runner and Seven might want to weaken Acer's pack—"

"—That doesn't make sense. Runner's all but given up his pack and Seven's not threatened by Acer."

"If you already know everything, why ask me?"

Mello rolled his eyes. "My apologies, O Wise One. Continue with your wild schemes."

"Well, Leo could've crossed Acer, I guess. Maybe he got carried away?"

"Possible."

"As for the eight lackeys, I haven't a clue. Lackeys never act on their own, so I don't see why one would act out like that unless ordered. I mean, murder?"

Mello's fingers flew across the keyboard. "Hm."

"You got something?"

"Hang on." Mello pulled up the profiles for the eight lackeys. "Of the eight, three are Acer's, one is Seven's, two belong to some kid named Jared, and two are Mace's. We've got two other packs to add to the analysis." Mello glanced up at Matt. "What if someone wanted to show Acer a lesson?"

Matt shook his head. "But that's…I mean, you do that in the classroom, or in the gaming hub. Not by…" _Mello. You're more insightful than Near thinks._

"Matt, this kid is dead. He didn't jump off a building and then crawl back into the hallway."

"I'm not stupid, Mello. No need to wax eloquent on the obvious."

"What, your obvious stupidity?"

"Shut _up_."

They lapsed into silence for a while. Mello gritted his teeth and went back to scanning the profiles. He was trying to build a diagram of how the pack rivalries worked. Matt was right; the pack theory was what ran the entire building. Brutal as it might have been, it was law, and Mello was damned if he wasn't going to try and understand it.

Matt's voice eventually interrupted his work. "Mello?"

"Yeah."

"You making any headway?"

"You asked me that ten minutes ago," Mello snapped. "Stop it."

"Sorry," Matt mumbled. Mello glanced up, surprised by the lack of an angry retort. It wasn't like the gamer to be…docile. He opted for the conciliatory route.

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Have you found anything?"

Matt paused and let his fingers come to a stop. "I…not really, no." He sighed and pressed the eject button on his external CD drive. "I feel so useless, you know? I mean, L's going to figure it out soon enough, Near's on the case, you're on the case—what good am I?" He deftly flipped the CD back into an open jewel case and pulled out another one. "Anyway. This kid's good. I know he had to mess with 17h, because kids don't just vanish, but there aren't any signs of tampering. I mean—none. I've even checked the backup loop, but it's the same: No Leo. I feel like I'm running in circles."

Mello raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm doing any better?"

"Well, yeah. You're collecting data, at least—"

"Can't you write a script to do that?"

"I already have one, but we'd still have to read—"

"Good." Mello shut his laptop and slid it back onto the trolley. "Come on."

"What?" Matt looked at him suspiciously. "We can't very well leave all this, Mello."

"Yes, we can." Mello grinned and held up a key. "Everyone else is in classes, and besides, all of our data is backed up, right?"

"Yeah, but…" Matt's fingertips brushed his laptop reverently. "I can't just leave it. What if someone picks the bloody lock?"

"You don't get it, do you?" Mello shook his head. "Come on. Trust me."

"I'm not—fine," Matt muttered, shutting his own laptop. "But if something does happen, you're going to be dead. It took me years to buy this stuff, you know."

"Yeah, yeah." Mello watched as Matt carefully crawled out from underneath the sink. He was being way too agreeable. Mello _had_ to be missing something. "You really do have a soft spot for that sink."

"Oh, shut up." Matt grimaced as blood sluggishly flowed back into his ankles, igniting the all-too familiar pins-and-needles sensation. "Ow."

Mello shook his head and clambered over the trolley, which was blocking the door. "Just hurry up."

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

"Where did you get the janitor's key?"

"From the janitor."

"Does the janitor know you have the key?"

"What do you think?"

"Mello!"

"What, have you discovered morals?"

"Why aren't we working?"

"You'll see."

"Are you going to tell me anything?"

"That depends. What would you like to know?"

"You're insufferable."

"That wasn't a question."

"You're right. It was a fact."

Mello smirked and continued walking, blissfully drinking in Matt's grumbling protests. _That_ was the irate gamer he knew.

Mello led them on a circuitous route, weaving from hallway to hallway until he was positive that Matt had stopped paying attention. When they finally reached their destination, a muscle in Matt's jaw twitched.

"You dragged us away from working…for chocolate."

They were in the kitchens, which were surprisingly peaceful at midmorning. Cook was nowhere in sight, but Matt could smell the lunch pizzas baking in the oven; she would be back soon enough. Mello placidly made his way to the pantry and began rummaging for something. "I never said that I wanted chocolate," he replied innocently over his shoulder. "You have such a low opinion of me." Something was still bothering his friend, then. He should have caught on before they got here…

"Oh, of course. It's all my fault, is it? And as if you ever come here for anything besides chocolate." Matt slid into one of the barstools at the counter—Mello always took forever when he was on one of his chocolate raids. "I'm seriously considering going back to work on my own."

"Mm." Mello found the case of Ghirardelli and grinned. "Score. Anyway, Matt," he continued, absently gathering an armful of the chocolate bars, "did you consider the fact that it's probably not safe to be walking around on your own?"

"Right, so what makes you think my stuff and our work is safe just sitting in the janitor's closet? Have you heard of the lockpick? It's a wonderful invention."

Mello slid onto the barstool next to Matt and dumped the chocolate onto the counter. "Oh, I know," he replied mildly, peeling back the foil on one of the bars. "Our stuff's probably being raided right about now."

Matt stared at him for a moment before his strangled vocal cords leapt back to life.

"_What?_"

Mello snorted and bit into his chocolate. "Do you really think I'm that stupid? Of course it's a possibility. Actually, it's more of a probability. That was the entire point."

"I don't know what you're doing, Mello, but it isn't funny!" Matt jumped to his feet and stared at his friend, askance. "I mean—bloody hell, do you know how long it took me to—to wire all of that? Some of it's mine from _before_, you dolt, and the rest I had to save up my allowances for. Not to mention the fact that it's our research, and we've spent the past two days working on it! And now you're telling me that you just led me here, on purpose, just so you could get some kid to raid it? What kind of moron are you?" This was unreal. _Oh, God, Mello, do you know what you've done?_

Mello took another bite of chocolate. "Are you done yet?" The only part of Matt's rant that had gotten to him was the part about "before"—if some of that stuff was left over from Mail Jeevas's life, then Mello would be in trouble if it was stolen, but he didn't think it would come to that. Better to maintain the façade.

"Are you even listening to me?" Before either of them knew quite what was going on, Matt's hands were clutching the front of Mello's shirt, suspending him in the air. "Mello, you had better start explaining."

Mello looked carefully at the white-knuckled fingers twisting into his collar. "Matt, let me down."

"Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."

Blue eyes met green again, iron against ice. Mello's fingers wrapped around Matt's, not enough to cause pressure, but enough to let him know that the threat was there.

"Let go of me."

"No."

Mello's hand dropped away. He saw the flicker of wariness in Matt's eyes, saw the glimmer of suspicion. _You know I'm not going to back down that easily, don't you, Matt?_

Matt recoiled, leaving Mello's jab at his jaw to just barely clip his chin. Mello was left to fall to his feet, off-balance with an outstretched arm. Matt's knee met his stomach; Mello rolled away with a grunt and latched onto Matt's ankle as he dropped to the ground. He rolled onto his back and yanked, taking out Matt's leg and sending him tumbling to the floor. There was a sharp _crack_ as Matt's back snapped against the linoleum tile. He growled and scuttled backwards, but not before Mello had lunged at him, hands outstretched.

Something was off. Matt had years of experience in scuffles ten times as serious as this; the jab at his stomach had been too obvious, too exposing; there was no way someone like _Matt_ would be taken down so easily—

Mello's brain was in the backseat. His hand sought out Matt's windpipe instinctively; his knee remembered the precise point on the stomach that would pin him most efficiently as he plowed into the smaller boy. Matt's hands scrabbled at Mello's grip on his throat, and he was bucked under the blonde's hold, fighting, trying to _breathe_—

Mello made the saving mistake of looking at his face. Iron met apathy, and Mello's muscles froze in place. The icy anger that he knew so well—it wasn't there. Instead, there was something frighteningly familiar, something that was supposed to be_ Mello's_ defense. Apathy—cool and collected and _content._ And Matt's body was still struggling, his hands were still clawing at Mello's grip, but they both knew that was instinct, not will.

Mello let go.

The sickly sweet fire of fighting seeped slowly from his veins, the burning pressure of blood in his temples receded. He took his knee from Matt's stomach and crouched back on his heels, keeping his eyes firmly locked with Matt's blank gaze. Matt stopped flailing and sat up, breaking off from Mello's gaze. His hand reached up and massaged his throat in slow, even circles. Silence, thick and brittle, stretched tightly between them in the sudden lull. Both of their muscles were still loose, Matt's with the mild grace of a deer, Mello's with the languid power of a wolf.

"What the _hell_ was that, Matt?"

It was Mello who broke the silence, his voice hoarse and raw. Matt's lips twitched in a barely perceptible smirk that Mello had only just begun to recognize—a mocking inside joke meant to be between Matt and Matt and none else. He met Mello's gaze again and held it placidly, his green eyes smooth mirrors that betrayed nothing.

"You tell me."

Matt was knocked onto his back again, and Mello's palms were planted against his chest, pinning him to the floor. "I think," Mello said flatly, his voice clipped and controlled, "that you ought to do the explaining, not me."

"You hit me."

"Really?"

"It was unprovoked."

"Like hell it was." Mello increased the pressure on Matt's chest, just a little bit, just enough to remind him of its existence. "You did it on purpose, and we both know it. You don't pull off the helpless-prey charade that well, you know."

Again came the smirk, but it was meant to be shared, this time. "Yeah. I figured you would get that."

"You did that on purpose?"

"Well, I hadn't _planned_ it, if that's what you're asking, but I let it happen. That good enough of a confession for you?"

Mello felt a smirk of his own tug at his lips. "You're a lunatic."

"So are you."

He climbed to his feet and held out a hand. "Need help?"

Matt snorted. "What am I, a kid?" he asked, and the irony conjured matching smiles. Matt rolled to his feet in one jump, wincing as his stomach protested. "You're heavy."

"Yeah, and you're a masochist."

Matt didn't say anything, just placed a hand to his abdomen and closed his eyes, breathing. Mello shook his head and walked around to the other end of the counter. He grabbed one of his chocolate bars and offered to his friend. "Chocolate?"

"Freak."

Mello shrugged and bit into it. "At least we accomplished something here," he remarked, gesturing to the scattered pile of chocolate bars. Matt looked at him and shook his head.

"I reiterate: Freak."

"Matt." Mello met his gaze, blue against green, the humor gone. "Why?"

Matt nodded and leaned against the counter, letting his legs sag. "Figured it was too much to hope for, that you'd drop it."

Mello waited.

"I'm not going to tell you." Matt crooked a smile. "Sorry."

"Yeah?" Mello grinned and mimicked Matt's position, leaning against the other counter. "You'll tell me eventually, you know."

"Oh, piss off."

"I wasn't lying about our data. I know someone's probably been through it by now."

"Well." Matt grimaced and shifted his full weight back to his feet. "I guess we can go back now, eh?"

Mello smiled and gathered his chocolate in his arms. "Lead the way."

--

The door to the janitor's closet was still locked, but Mello knew better. He shone a pocket flashlight in the keyhole, saw the telltale marks of graphite against the metal. An amateur lockpick, then, who had been planning to break into the closet for a while. He had taken the key, marked off his lockpicks with a pencil, then returned the key before trying the actual lock—all well and clever, but Mello wasn't stupid.

Matt's laptop reported that although someone had disabled the topmost levels of his security system, the core was still intact. It gave him the expected report—someone had looked at their files, copied a few onto a drive, left the rest, and had signed out. It was all done on-site, not remotely; still, the clutter looked exactly the same as when they had left. There were no signs of tampering. Just to be safe, Matt had run a sweep of the closet with what Mello had always assumed was an ordinary pen, but no listening devices cropped up. All in all—a good day. Thank God there hadn't been a message blatantly left for him or anything like that. Matt had to wonder exactly what the little snoop knew, if he was digging through their files. It was fortunate that Matt didn't leave too many trails to follow.

Matt was typing away, reenacting the more advanced security layers, tweaking them here and there to improve the patchwork of safeguards. It was Wammy's laptop, not his private one, so he was taking advantage of the chance to start from scratch. No real harm had been done—there were no viruses, no spy programs, no worms waiting to leap to life. Matt was pleased; there had obviously been an attempt to install such a program, but his security had quietly derailed it.

Mello was still gnawing on his chocolate. "You understand why I had us leave, now?"

"Enlighten me."

"Think about it. Classes are still in session. They've been in session this whole time."

"So whoever was out of class—"

"Bingo."

Matt shook his head. "Only an idiot would take that bait. I would've killed you if something had happened to my stuff."

"Would you really?"

Again with the clash of blue versus green, iron versus ice. The ice thawed first; Matt looked away, a cool sensation worming in his gut. "Maybe."

Mello nodded. "Do you want to go to the infirmary?"

Matt glanced down at his stomach. He had taken a cursory look at the bruises, spreading like the impression of a supernova across his abdomen. "You really think that something as trivial as _these_ merits a trip to that place? You flatter yourself."

"Yeah, well, that knee to the stomach was pathetic."

"I wasn't trying."

"You're good at keeping secrets, Matt."

"Not half as good as you."

"I suppose." Mello smiled faintly and saved his work. "What do you say? Run the analysis later? Bathroom sign-outs don't come in until the end of the day, so we won't know who took the bait until then."

Matt grinned and closed the lid to his laptop. "We're not leaving the trolley this time, you know."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Puzzle Board?"

"Of course."

They loaded the mess of wires and blinking lights onto the kitchen trolley and pushed it into the hallway. Reality, in all of its gory immediacy, could wait.

* * *

**AN:** Well, I hope this was acceptable. :) I liked writing their little spat. It was fun. Was it any good, O Mighty Readers? Please, do tell me. Reviews are loved. I apologize in advance if it takes me a while to get back to you, but I swear, I read them as soon as I get them. It's just...procrastination. I'm human, all right? 

(Actually, my species is debatable. I think I'm too unstable to be completely normal. Let's leave that alone, shall we?)

Cheers.

February 3rd, 2008. 8:30 PM


	11. Duality

Disclaimer: Not mine. 

**AN:** Hello again, everyone! I bring to you the next installment. It may be a bit choppy, as my brain is well and truly fried. I mean, the new semester's started, and life is INSANE. I have a three-page position paper for Model UN due Monday, sort of, and I haven't started. At all. Anyone out there from Kuwait? I need to pick your brain.

Thank you to all my reviewers. I must agree with you--the fight scene was a bit abrupt, in retrospect, but what can I say? The dream sequence you'll find in this chapter probably should have been inserted earlier. Meh.

Acidalteredfingerprints: I'll PM my response to your review. Thanks!

Enough of my ramblings.

* * *

They played Puzzle Board. 

It was a refreshing change of pace from hours spent crouched before the glowing light of their screens. Mello's eyes had begun to sting after two days spent mostly in dimly lit closets and secluded crannies. Now, in the library, it was light and airy; there was sunshine aplenty streaming through the broad window, and the air was carefully controlled in order to preserve the ranks and ranks of books. The rhythm of Puzzle Board was familiar to them both, now, and that familiarity nearly eliminated the need for speech. The time passed in comfortable silence, for the most part, and the stresses of unspoken worries and the tension of the case were almost forgotten.

_Almost_, Mello reminded himself. _Almost._

There was still something off about Matt. He stumbled a number of times—small slips, nothing fatal, but Mello still had to speak up to prevent the unnecessary loss of a pawn or a rook. And then there was the way he moved. Mello _knew_ that he had hurt Matt, perhaps more than he should have. And despite that, Matt's gait was unchanged; he didn't bother to adjust his movements to reduce stress on his tender abdomen, nor did his injuries stop him from pressing against the edge of the table. It made Mello feel almost guilty—almost—_almost—_

And then he felt Matt's fingers fisting in his collar again, and he had to suppress a shudder. No, what was done was done; what mattered was that something was still wrong, something that hadn't been plowed away by the battery of fists.

Matt picked up their bishop and made to move it three segment northeast. Mello's fingers clamped around his wrist. "You'll lose it."

Matt glanced up. "What?"

Mello tapped the point Matt had intended to place the bishop. "Look. You'd be surrounded next turn. Don't you see Red's pawn?" That was the interesting bit about Puzzle Board; if your piece was hemmed in on all sides, it was taken. Mello hadn't expected Matt to miss such an obvious trap.

"Oh." Matt replaced the bishop and grimaced. "I'm out of it."

"It's not like you."

Matt looked away from the board and quirked an eyebrow. Mello wasn't fooled; the familiar spark of aloof amusement wasn't there. "What, aren't I allowed to mess up once in a while?" Matt shook his head and offered Mello a plastic grin. "Sorry. If you're so afraid I'm going to lose the game, you can take control."

Mello shook his head._You're not fooling anyone._

"Nah. Sorry, go on."

Something about this just didn't fit.

--

Matt's stomach hurt like hell.

He spat the last gob of toothpaste into the shared sink and flipped the faucet on. Spearmint—disgusting. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and ran the water over his toothbrush. Mello had really done a number on him. That much he should've guessed, really. Mello had probably learned to fight back against his brother, despite the scars; he just wasn't…passive, like Matt was. Matt's solution had always been to deal with the bare minimum, then flee, usually with some pretended pride. It was hardly surprising that Mello was the stronger one.

Grin and bear it, Matt, grin and bear it. There was nothing as bad as actually _showing_ pain. It wasn't hard. Matt didn't mind the pain, really; to be honest, he welcomed it. Mello was more perceptive than Matt usually gave him credit for. Matt had seen the flare of anger in those blue eyes when he had confronted Mello, but he hadn't backed down, although as far as _why_—

Matt flipped the faucet off and snapped his toothbrush back into its plastic case. He didn't know the precise _why_ of that question. Defiance had just seemed…a relief, really, a return to something vaguely normal. He was no longer second place. That was fine. What _wasn't_ fine was the fact that not only was he a lousy third, but everyone was acting like it was…okay. As if he hadn't changed. Before Matt had clawed his way into second place, a girl named Emily had been in third, and Dragon had been second. Dragon had graduated—Matt had no idea where he was now—but Matt remembered. L had had eyes for none but Near and Dragon. All of the rest of them had been naught but toys, brightly colored baubles that would snag the detective's interest for a few moments, only to be cast aside. Emily had hated it. And then, of course, Dragon had been caught cheating, and that was the end of that. Emily got her wish—L learned her name.

This was different. Matt was third place now—worse than useless, if one looked at the precedents, because you were detested for winning but you didn't get any of the protection that accompanied first or second place. And yet—L had consulted the _three_ of them, Mello took him seriously, and even Near was still talking to him…

It wasn't _right_.

For most of Matt's life, he had been defined by his position in the rankings. His earliest memory was of Quilish Wammy: a distant, grandfatherly figure, blurry and indistinct. Wammy House—in all of its nuturing adherence to survival of the fittest—had been, for better or worse, his only parent. Survival, respect, friendship, hatred—every element of life was determined by the rankings. Matt had come to define himself in terms of placement. Tenth-place Matt was weak, innocuous, bullied. Fifth-place Matt was a threat, and hunted. Second-place Matt had been safe.

Who was third-place Matt? It didn't make sense. L was making exceptions, and L _never_ made exceptions. Mello had messed everything up. Mello…

Matt turned around and rolled his shirt up, exposing his bruises to the floor-length bathroom mirror. The imprint of Mello's knee rolled across his ribcage like a moldering breath of smog. Maybe that was why he hadn't fought back. It was a familiar injury, and, in some ways, he deserved it. Wouldn't that be poetic justice?

Life was spinning out of control, it seemed, but maybe the only difference was that Matt had stepped out of the flow of time, and everyone else was continuing on without him. The change in ranking. He forced himself to believe that that was the problem, the source of the prickling guilt in the back of his throat. Not Leo. Never Leo, because how could he owe Leo anything, when no one seemed to owe him?

Matt spun around, grabbed his toothbrush, and left the bathroom. Quieting the voices that rattled around his skull was a talent long since perfected.

--

Mello tensed as soon as Matt walked into the room, but if his friend noticed, he didn't consider it significant enough to remark on it. Instead, he tossed the blonde a lazy wave and dropped his toothbrush back into the tray by the door. "Your turn."

"You're slow," Mello retorted from his place sprawled on his mattress. "I used the one on the next hall over."

"You've got some nerve." Matt laughed and dropped onto his bed, sitting with his legs draped over the side. "I wouldn't risk running around here, not now, Mello. No need to be an idiot."

"I thought that we had already agreed that I _am_ an idiot," Mello said, turning his head to face Matt. "Does that mean I can actually change your pig-brained mind?"

"Oi, well, don't get too full of yourself." Matt grinned. "God knows your ego's big enough."

Mello laughed, but even to his ears, it sounded hollow. "I know." He hesitated. "I…Matt?"

"What?" Matt was still grinning, oblivious. Mello rolled into a sitting position and continued.

"Sorry."

"For what?" Matt quirked an eyebrow. "You still thinking about earlier?"

"Acting stupid doesn't work for you, Matthais." Mello crooked a faint grin. "Seriously, though. Your gait's off, just a bit, even if you're trying your best to ignore it, and I _know_ you've got a high pain threshold."

"Ah, so the great Mello knows human emotions like regret after all." Matt's grin hadn't slipped a bit. It was odd—coming from anyone else, the name of "Matthais" was nothing but a baldfaced insult, but from Mello… "So I'm hurt a bit. So what?"

"Yeah, yeah." Mello propped his chin on his fist and held Matt's gaze. "So I'm human. Surprise, eh?"

"Tell me about it."

"But…seriously. Sorry."

Matt shook his head. "It's fine." And it was, strangely enough, but Matt didn't bother dwelling on that. "I am curious, though. How did I manage to trigger…_that_?"

Mello blinked. That hadn't been the response he had been expecting. "Trigger?"

"Oh, come on. _Something_ set you off. You do realize that you're a bit scary when you're mad, right?"

"Ah." Mello shrugged. "It was nothing, really."

"You're a worse liar than I am."

"Your point being?"

Matt grimaced. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Nope."

Matt cocked his head to the side and smiled. "You basically just admitted that it's an important omission."

Mello felt his face flush, but he kept smirking all the same. "You did the exact same thing earlier, you idiot."

"Did I?" Matt laughed and reached for his remote. "Whatever." He pushed the button and the lights shut off, leaving them alone in the darkness. "G'night."

"You're a bastard."

"Never said I wasn't."

--

The bells were tolling.

Mihael swore and shoved his papers into the folder. How could he have lost track of time? He had stayed up too late last night, trying to clean out the stupid gash on his chest, and he was tired, so very tired, and the bells were ringing already. Once they tolled, twice, thrice, a fourth, a fifth…

He grabbed his calculator and the folder and ran for his room. How could he have forgotten? A sixth bell rang out, followed closely by a seventh. He barreled through the door and dove for the loose floorboard by the back wall, his fingers scrabbling for purchase. The eight bell tolled. Mihael's frantic fingers finally managed to grip the edge of the splintereing board. The ninth bell; he only had a few seconds—

He dropped his work and his calculator into the hollow space and slammed the floorboard shut just as the tenth bell rang out. Mihael stood and ran for the door, desperate to get _out_—

Too late. The eleventh bell rang; the front door opened with a forlorn squeal. Andrew was punctual, as always.

Their apartment was small. From the front door, a visitor had a clear view of both the kitchen and of the main hallway that their bedrooms branched off of. Under normal circumstances, Mihael wouldn't have cared, but it did make life rather…

_Inconvenient._

Andrew's bookbag thudded to the floor, unnoticed by its steel-eyed owner. The older boy crooked a smile. "Working on your problems again, little archangel?"

"I wasn't…" The protest died before it was fully formed. Mihael looked down at the cracked floorboards and closed his mouth. It wasn't his fault, any of it. If anyone was to blame, it was their mother; Mihael had never asked for this…

Andrew laughed. "Yeah, I'm sure you weren't. Don't lie to me, little brother. You're no good at lying. How's that, eh? The great Mihael actually failing _miserably _at something? How's that feel? Mummy's little angel isn't so perfect after all, is he?"

Mihael continued to study the grain of the floor. This was a ritual, by now—every Friday, Andrew got out of school early, usually with a forged note, though some days he simply skipped. Apparently he was talented at stroking the egos of his teachers. Mihael didn't know much about how the school system worked; he had been homeschooled for as long as he could remember. "Homeschooling"—what a laugh. Mihael taught himself. Their mother was always too busy working, which meant that come eleven o'clock on Friday, it was the two of them, alone, and none else to interfere.

Andrew shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the front door. "So, Mihael. What were you doing in your 'work' today, eh? Go on, you can tell me. I don't bite."

No, you don't, thought Mihael, but your knife does.

"Conic sections," Mihael whispered, because he didn't feel like playing Andrew's games today. Give him the easy victories. There's no point in any of it.

"Conic sections?" Mihael heard Andrew's lips stumble around the word, and he smiled inwardly. There, you see, Andrew? I have already won. You, who are four years my senior—even you don't know what a conic function is.

"You know," Mihael heard himself saying, even though he really didn't have to, "conic functions. The graphs of circles and hyperbolas and ellip—"

"I know bloody well what a conic function is," Andrew snapped, too sharply, as he moved towards him. "Don't peg me for an idiot like yourself."

_Liar._ "Sorry," Mihael mumbled, backing into his room without really meaning to. Christ, this always happened, didn't it?

Andrew's shove to his chest came as no surprise, but he didn't bother blocking it. He was tired of it all, so very tired, and he just couldn't summon the effort…

Andrew shoved him again and he stumbled backwards, felt the heels of his too-big sneakers catch on the warped floor boards as he fell. Before he could hit the ground, Andrew's fingers were fisting in his collar, pulling him up up up and bringing him to eye level. Andrew's eyes were so cold, so very cold, and that was what had always been the warning sign. Hot anger used you, twisted your thoughts into irrational fury. Cold anger, on the other hand, was a tool to be used _by_ you, and Andrew had a level of mastery with that particular weapon that had always bordered on inhuman.

Maybe that was the reason behind all of this. Maybe Andrew _wasn't_ human.

Andrew's mouth stretched in a crocodile's grin, but his eyes were the same glacier blue as always. "Hey, Mihael. You awake? Don't give me that glass-eyed stare, little brother. It's rather rude."

I should say something, Mihael thought distantly. I should whimper, cry out, beg, something. It'll make it easier.

He remained silent.

Andrew shook his head. "You're an idiot," he said, and he rammed Mihael against the wall. Mihael winced as his head snapped against the drywall. "What's wrong, little angel? Can't you fly away?" Andrew's fingers were still twisted in his collar. The older boy dropped into a crouch without so much as a warning, dragging his younger brother with him. Mihael's skull rapped against the floor; there was a dull roar building in his ears, fighting with Andrew's lilting voice for dominance.

God, he was so _tired…_

"Always Mummy's favorite, weren't you, Mihael?" Fingers scrabbled in his hair, jerked his head up and down against the floor again. "Always perfect." The fingers were back at his throat, and _God_, Andrew, don't you realize what you're doing? I'm surprised. Normally you draw things out, play with me a bit, and where's the knife, Andrew? This isn't like you…

I beat you today, didn't I? You know it, too. I get it now. I'm…I'm actually _ahead_ of you, for real, this time, and you've never even heard of a conic section in your life.

A weight planted itself on his stomach and pressure stabbed at his jugular. Stars exploded in Mihael's vision, crimson stars, white purple gold black ugly stars. Andrew's fingers were pressing, jabbing at his throat, but it wasn't _his_ throat anymore, there was some mistake, the pain was so far away…

"Come on," Andrew hissed, barely audible over the pounding of blood. "Aren't you going to—"

Mihael couldn't hear, couldn't breath, couldn't speak; the pressure was building, building, and it _wouldn't stop_—

His fingers scrambled uselessly at his side, clawing at nothingness, but then they collided with Andrew's jeans and there was something, there was _something,_ and he closed his fingers around the object and _pulled_. He thrashed, jabbing randomly, stabbing, slicing, but then he hit something of _substance_, something hard. Then the resistance broke, and he could breath again, his chest was throbbing with the removal of the weight, and his vision blanked out into white and red as oxygen rushed into his brain.

There was a scream, somewhere, but it wasn't really connected to _him_—there was some mistake, there had to be—and there was blood, warm blood, and it was probably his but Mihael didn't care and he was crawling away, and there was blood in his mouth and on his head and on his collar, and some voice in the back of his head was trying to talk to him, trying to tell him that he had_ won._

What?

Mihael looked down, saw the severed hand hanging limply at his collar, saw the screaming boy behind him, clutching a stump of an arm, and his scream rose in a sickening duet to match Andrew's.

--

Bloody hell, somebody was _screaming_.

Matt was on his feet before he was awake, but he knew that voice when he heard it, even with the foreign sound of fear and pain mixed in. He ran across the room, stumbling past the kitchen trolley in the dark, and grabbed Mello's shoulders. The boy was shivering, convulsing, almost, even though the scream had been cut off with a strangled yelp; Matt didn't need the light seeping under the door to see the terror etched across Mello's face. He shook him, hard. "Mello!" There was no response, only terror, panting breaths—no gasp of wakefulness, nothing to signal that he was emerging from the nightmare. Matt's hand slapped across his face, leaving a stinging spread of white across the blonde's flushed cheeks. "Mello! Snap out of it. Mello!"

The wide-spread eyes closed, opened, stared wildly around, like a panicked cat tossed from a household window into the middle of an alleycat fight in the street below. "Mello," Matt repeated, grabbing hold of his friend's chin. "Come on, man. You're _Mello_, I'm _Matt_, this is Wammy House, you're _safe_…come on, Mello, come on…"

Mello's hand snapped out to grip Matt's arm. The gamer winced as his friend's fingernails dug into the tender flesh of his forearm. "Mello…?"

"I didn't mean to do it," he said, staring at Matt with wild unrecognition. "I swear, I swear, I wasn't even going to fight him that time. I wasn't going to…"

"Mello." Matt gently pried the blonde's fingers from his arm—_Christ_, he was even stronger when he was like this. "Are you awake?"

"I didn't mean it," Mello repeated. "I didn't, I didn't…"

Fuck, he was shaking—_shaking_, and with all of that aloof composure stripped away, he was just a regular kid, terrified out of his wits.

Nice. So they could only act like "normal" kids when they were scared shitless? Well, _that_ was optimistic.

Matt said nothing, just sat there, on the edge of Mello's bed, and in the darkness, it was impossible to tell one broken boy from the other. This was what it came to, then: two boys, flip sides of the same coin, one struggling in the past and the other grappling with the present Both of them were broken, and neither knew how to heal.

Morning was a long time in coming.

--

Brian opened their door the following morning to discover two disheveled, bleary-eyed kids. "Hey," he said. "I hope you're not too hungry. L's summoned you both down to his office."

Matt glanced over at Mello, who was still staring vacantly at the carpet. "All right, then. We're coming."

They trailed after him in unusual silence, neither of them so much as whispering behind his back. It was eerie. After all, Matt normally took every chance to snub him, and the blonde wasn't exactly the paragon of courtesy, either. They had their fun with the adults. To be simply ignored—it was weird.

And damn irritating, too.

Brian opened the door to let the two kids in and watched as they silently fell into the chairs. L didn't glance up from his plate of strawberries.

Damned irritating.

--

L looked up as soon as the door closed, but he waited to speak, instead taking the opportunity to examine his pupils. They were quiet, both of them, and the source of their untalkativity was probably Mello, if his observations proved correct. Matt kept glancing at him, an expression of quiet anxiety hovering behind the blank mask L knew so well. It was none of his concern, of course, but it was interesting to note. Matt certainly would not appreciate any attempts at compassion on L's part.

"Good morning," L said belatedly, by way of breaking the silence. He did not have the time to waste psychoanalyzing his pupils. "I apologize for my reticence when Brian dropped you off. He is not the most trustworthy of my staff."

Matt looked at him then. "Then why do you keep him?"

L smiled. "Keep one's enemies close, do you not agree?" He plucked a strawberry from his plate and spun it between his fingers for a moment. "Brian was never particularly fond of me."

Matt ignored his answer. "Why did you summon us, anyway?" he asked. L frowned. The normal tone of irritable defiance—it was missing, this morning. Perhaps he would have to check the tapes; it would not do for Matt to be working on the investigation if he was out of sorts. Then again, if Near's claim had merit…

"I have announced Leo's death in the interim during which both of you have been absent from classes," L said. He popped the strawberry into his mouth. "The funeral is to be held today. Any student may attend if they so desire, but there will be no outsiders. I will be attending, of course."

"Will you?" Matt's eyes were dull, disinterested. "I must say, I'm a bit surprised."

L began rolling a strawberry around his plate. Interesting—even in this state, obviously out of sorts and generally apathetic, Matt still believed the worst of him. That was…unfortunate, L supposed, but it wasn't his place to change it. "Of course," L said, in answer to Matt's question. "I have that responsibility to Leo, after all." In that statement was the silent admission. It was—unthinkable, really, that something so hideous had occurred on his watch. L did not intend to sully his conscience further by ignoring Leo's funeral.

Matt shrugged. "I guess."

"Will you come?" L inquired, still rolling the strawberry. He kept his voice low. Matt glanced at Mello uneasily.

"I think—"

"We'll go," Mello said abruptly, speaking for the first time. "I'd like that."

L nodded. "I am glad." It was not good that Matt had nearly refused—Near would certainly bring that point up later. "In that case, I have a few other things to bring to your attention."

Matt frowned. "Other things?"

"Yes." L watched them both carefully, gauging their reactions. "Have you determined any suspects as of yet?"

"We have a list of missing students at the time of the murder," Mello said quietly. "We haven't gotten very far."

"You've been analyzing data?"

"Yes."

L nodded. "Near has chosen to take a more…psychological approach. He believes he has identified a possible suspect."

Matt looked at L dully. "And who is it?"

L's hand went to the intercom button. "Near, come in, please."

The door to the rear of L's office opened, revealing an apathetic Near. "I decided that Near ought to explain his reasoning to you," L said as Near made his way to sit in the third chair in front of L's desk, facing the other two boys. "It will require an explanation, I believe."

Matt's brow furrowed. This was exactly the wrong time for him to be attempting anything close to cognitive activity. He was tired, stressed, confused, and in pain—couldn't L have done this another day…?

Near was as cool and distant as always, dressed in his usual all-white uniform and without the slightest hint of condescension on his face—a nice try, but Matt knew how to read him. Near was feeling triumphant. It was in the quiet calm in his eyes, in the fact that his hands were still, not toying with his hair. Near thought he had won something—but what, and why?

_It's _way_ too early for this._

"My main suspect at this point," Near said, "is Matt."

And the day just got that much worse.

* * *

I was debating about whether or not to keep going, but I couldn't bring myself to type more. Sorry about the cilffy. ;P 

Anyway! Please review; last chapter got the most reviews yet and I was completely overjoyed. It makes me happy--and, beyond that, your reviews are quite literally shaping the plot, because while I've got a general road map, the specific scenes aren't exactly planned out yet. Oh, and the dream-memory thing was my way of explaining why exactly Mello freaked in the kitchen last chapter. Remember, Matt grabbed at his collar in the kitchen?

Yeah, I know, random and not-so-good writing, but hey! It's fun. :P Sorry if I still haven't replied to your reviews--I've been bogged down with so much homework that laptop time is a thing of the past. But! Hoy es sabado; thank God! (Ja, I'm in Spanish I. No laughing!) I'll write off the answers to the last half-dozen reviews or so once I post this. Chau!

February 9th, 2008. 9:51 PM


	12. Reverberations

**AN:** 'Ello, everybody! I feel like this chapter has taken forever. Gack. Not fun, I tell you, not fun; though it was a good chapter to write, it dragged. I kept going back and editing, and "additing," and deleting, and additing some more...Sorry! If you've forgotten--how could you forget?--Near just accused Matt of being the murderer. Yay. Anyhow, I present to you: the twelfth chapter! Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I wish I was earning money for this, but I'm not. Pity. It's not mine.

* * *

Fuck. 

_Fuck_.

This was _so_ not his morning.

Mello didn't look at Matt. He kept his eyes trained on Near's, not flinching, not batting an eye, even though he really, _really_ wanted to jump out of his chair and thrash the fucking little bastard—

Life was pure and utter_crap_. Thank you, Near, for that wonderfully insightful and completely _idiotic_ accusation. Thank you, Near. You think you're that high-and-mighty? Well, thanks, because now I've got someone to blame for all of the _crap_ that seems to be cropping up every time I turn a corner.

Easy, Mello. Don't throttle him; not with L sitting here, judging you, judging both of you.

What about Matt?

Don't look at him, don't look; you _know_ Near's being—being—

Being what?

Near's the fucking genius.

Near's a fucking retard.

Mello forced the knot in his chest to unwind, forced out the breath that had gotten lodged in his lungs. This was _not_ his morning, but that was okay; Near would get it soon enough, because any second now, Matt was going to protest and start ranting and raving the way Mello wanted to.

Silence.

Well, then, it would fall to him.

"Near," he said, with as much control as he could manage, because the bloodlust that had been reawakened just yesterday was pounding through his head again, "I think you need to explain."

Near inclined his head. "Of course," he replied, simply, but Mello wasn't fooled. Christ. I had you pegged for some autistic savant, Near. Not an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Not a manipulative freak, not an idiot, not a sadist.

Matt was silent next to him.

"I will list the technical reasons first," Near continued. His hands were still, sitting languidly on the armrests of the chair. Mello forced his eyes up, focusing on Near's ear, because he couldn't look that _bastard_ in the face without the anger surging up like bile, but nor could he look away, because _that_ would be surrender. "First, Matt has the technical capabilities with which to alter the system. This is indisputable, as he is not only ranked high on the lists, but he also responds well to motivation, as his rapid ascent in recent years is tribute to. Had he motivation, he would face few obstacles in rewiring the security system." Near paused, giving the two boys an opportunity to debate this point.

Matt's silence was so_loud_, so deafeningly loud, and it was all Mello could do to keep from glancing backwards at him. _Don't look_. Don't look, don't show hesitation; confidence, real or false, is all we have left, isn't it?

"Conjecture," Mello snapped, belatedly, and it was all he could do to keep his lips from curling into a snarl. _Why am I the one defending you, Matt_? "You don't know that he had any motivation."

"I will arrive at that," Near replied coolly. "Allow me to continue. I am merely proving that it is _possible_ that Matt could have committed the murder at this point in time. Second, Matt was not in his room at the time of the murder—"

"He was in the goddamned janitor's closet," Mello hissed. "He's on the tapes." It was so sickening, so disgustingly sickening, to be arguing Matt's position, as if he wasn't even there. Speak up, Matt; for all of our sakes—_speak up_.

"Matt is never on the tapes." Near's mouth curled into a smile. It looked disgustingly out of place on that face, a look of petty human gloating stamped onto an alien visage. "His _true_ self is not, at any rate. He ghosts himself constantly. This is presumably a habit born of self-defense, or perhaps it is due to simple defiance, but it certainly casts a shadow of doubt over any alibi he might hold."

Near's eyes drifted to Mello's side, obviously goading Matt on. Mello heard the strangled hitch deep in Matt's throat and realized that it was the first noise he heard since Near's accusation. Matt hadn't even been _breathing_, for Christ's sake.

Matt, you have to say something. You _have_ to speak up. Don't be an idiot. Come _on_…

"I have more points related to Matt's technical ability to carry out the murder," Near continued, his voice again bland and apathetic. "However, the crucial point, as Mello pointed out, is motive." Near's hand reached up to toy with a strand of stray hair, tugging, looping. Mello focused on that; it was so much better to focus on the mundane. Don't lose your temper, Mello.

Matt, when are you going to speak up?

"In my opinion, Matt's motive could be portrayed by a simple function of human emotion." Near's voice was building into a crescendo of confidence towards victory, but Mello thought—just for a moment—that he heard something nearly _human_ in that mechanical tone, besides confidence. Uncertainty? Regret?

Anger?

"Jealousy."

"_What?_"

Mello couldn't stifle the exclamation. Jealousy—how on Earth would Leo's murder stem from Matt's _jealousy_? It was…ridiculous. It didn't make the _tiniest_ shred of sense. He was on his feet, again, and what was it with this little brat and his ability to push Mello in all the wrong places? "Explain, Near."

Near's smile widened, just a hair, a little half-moon of robotic victory. "Isn't it obvious, Mello? You protected Leo. Matt was jealous. He has never experienced anything bordering on 'friendship' before. It is a natural response to respond to such a situation with—"

The chair behind Mello fell to the floor with a _thud_ and all of a sudden there was the warmth of radiating body heat at his side. Mello felt his breath escape in a hiss of relief; about _time_, Matt, tell Near, tell him how utterly stupid he is, because for the life of me, I'm going to murder him myself.

Then the warmth vanished, the door opened, slammed shut, and Mello spun around, suddenly disoriented by the distinct lack of tension at his side.

"_Matt!_"

Mello pulled the door open, caught sight of a flicker of red stripes around the corner. He lunged out—

And found himself abruptly hauled back into the room by a firm fist gripping the back of his shirt. "Let him go," L said, his voice low in Mello's ear. "You owe him that much."

Mello's fingers tightened around the doorframe, digging into the unyielding wood. "Let go of my shirt."

The fabric fell slack against his back as he felt L move to the side. Thank God for that; without the specter of Andrew's shadow gripping his shirt, coherent thought was almost possible.

Matt. Where are you, Matt? Christ, don't _do_ this to me—

You ran away. You fucking ran away. You have to give me something to work with, you idiot. You have to…

His fingers clenched, biting into the frame. It was going to splinter, if he kept this up, but Mello didn't care, couldn't care. He couldn't think, couldn't hear for the roar of blood in his ears, and it was so very, painfully similar to yesterday in the kitchen, and later that night—_the night_, _not that, don't remember that_—that Mello thought he was going to scream.

L's voice was circling, mumbling, a dull monotonic drone buried under the pounding of his pulse. The beat was dreadfully slow, constant: and-one, and-two, and-three, and-four; eight note-quarter note patterns drowning out any coherent perception. L was speaking, talking, but Mello couldn't hear, didn't want to hear. Matt, what's happening? I can't do this. Not now, not with my mind worn thin, stretched to its breaking point, not with Andrew's sibilant hiss twining around my dreams and with Near's arrogant smile hovering in my thoughts. I can't, I can't, I _won't_…

Mello stared out at the hallway, and the antiseptic walls stared right back. Matt. I should go after you, I should, but I can't. The hall was empty, devoid of anything resembling humanity; empty and barren, so very much like…

A cool hand touched his wrist. "You're hurting yourself, Mello."

The voice barely brushed through the surface of his pulse's percussion, but it managed to pull Mello's thoughts back into the present. It was L's voice, but it wasn't, at the same time—on the very few occasions Mello had seen the man, his voice had been only an inch less robotic than Near's, but now, it seemed almost…

Human.

He turned his head and tried to speak, but his curt "What?" strangled in his throat, paralyzed by the lodged lump situated on his vocal cords. Instead, he met L's eyes, defiant, before shifting his gaze to the pale hand clamped around his wrist. His knuckles were white with strain, devoid of blood, and as he looked he felt the distant sensation of—pain?

Yes, pain; there was a splinter digging into the pad of his index finger, and a tiny bead of crimson was pooling at its tip. Mello slowly ordered his hand to unclench and watched with a form of sick fascination as his muscles sluggishly attempted to relax. L removed his hand, but he didn't move; Mello could still feel him at his back, waiting.

"I sent Near away," L said quietly. "Please sit with me for a while."

Mello stared up at L's eyes, knowing that his own were wild with animalistic incomprehension. There was a foreign softness in L's eyes, so unlike his usual academic disinterest, and it was…strange. Who was he kidding? This whole thing was strange, alien beyond belief, this shouldn't have been happening, it _shouldn't_…

Mello closed his eyes and moved away from the door, back into L's office. Behind him, L shut the door quietly, and Mello sank mutely into his former chair. L slid into the seat across from him, his eyes still shining with that foreign expression. "I should not have allowed Near to continue, Mello. I am sorry."

Mello slipped his hands under his thighs and focused his gaze on the ground. L sighed. "Mello. Please talk to me."

"Why?"

L bit down on his thumb, pressing until he could taste the sharp tang of blood, and Mello wondered dimly whom his disdain was directed towards. "Mello, please."

Silence.

"I do not believe Near's reasoning, you know."

Mello looked up sharply, a brittle curtain of frost over his blue eyes. "What?"

"Near's logic is flawed." L held that brittle gaze, still sucking quietly on the bead of copper blood. "Surely you realized as much? I do not believe that you believed Near."

"I…" Mello swallowed. "I don't. I mean, I didn't. But then…"

"But then he ran away."

Mello nodded.

"Near's logic is not logic, per se." L paused. "He operates using trial-and-error in the absence of data. In all likelihood, this was a test. I cannot discredit his theory, but I believe that perhaps it would be wise to take an objective standpoint on this matter." He leaned forward in his chair, his toes curling around the edges. "Do you understand what I am attempting to convey, Mello?"

Abruptly, Mello felt like laughing. This was all so absurd, so fucking absurd. The world had just been turned upside down, and L was talking about—objectivity.

"Yeah," Mello said, grinning. "Yeah. Thanks, L."

Oh, what a _laugh_.

Mello couldn't decide whether to scream or laugh or cry.

--

Matt ran.

Before he had taken second place, Runner's pack had made midnight "recruiting" runs a policy. Now, his feet still remembered the maze of zigzagging hallways that had formed his nighttime paths, when he had given up sleep in favor of safety. He pounded along the empty halls with the same frenzied heartbeat that had once marked the sighting of a pack, but now, his flight took on another meaning entirely.

Matt was not running from an outside threat, this time.

His thoughts, once his only allies, had become adversaries; his mind, once his only defense, had become his enemy. There was no time to consider, no time to ponder; all that existed was the drumming of his heart, the smack of tile against shoes.

Matt ran.

The thoughts caught up to him despite his efforts. The pushed past his barriers, past the icy curtains he had drawn around himself. The thoughts caught up to him, and they _came_…

Oh, God, what had he done?

_I have done nothing wrong._

But Mello…Mello…

Christ. What would Mello think?

How had this happened?

For Matt, Wammy had never been that warm, fuzzy haven that deserved the term "home." How often had his teachers, when discussing connotations and denotations, described the difference between a "house" and a "home"? Wammy _House_, it always was, Wammy House—until Mello had arrived, bruised and bloodied and feral, and had turned this bleak world into something resembling…home. Mello had arrived, and thrown the brutal order of the universe on its head, and for Matt to lose that by his own hands…

_I have done nothing wrong, nothing, Mello; can't you see_?

Will you see? I wonder… 

Matt felt the prickling warmth behind his eyes and stopped, bending over at the waist and pressing his hands to his bent knees. It had been too good to be true, hadn't it? Maybe happiness was just something out of a fairytale.

He forced his pulse to calm. Whatever Mello would think if and when he managed to see to the bottom of this convoluted mess, Matt knew that he had done nothing wrong There was, however, one person who _had_ done something wrong, albeit inadvertently; there was one person who also lay at fault in this dismal whirlwind of chaos and anarchy.

Matt summoned his composure and turned around, stifling the tremors that still rocked his spine. He had done nothing wrong. The mask was back in place, unbroken, taken up as if he had never put it down. Matt was the old Matt once more—studious, quiet, and cold, the spitting image of a certain albino prodigy who had dared to expose a half-truth in a moment of spiteful resentment.

Matt knew himself for who he was.

_Sorry, Mello._

Remorse was not something that thrived in Wammy House.

--

Near's fingers picked impatiently at his hair, spinning, twirling, pulling. Something wasn't right. He didn't know _what_, precisely, but something wasn't right. It was bothersome. Near much preferred the simplicity of his puzzles to the complexities of intangible sensations. Something was _off_…

He sighed and opened the door to his room. It couldn't be helped. If the feeling dissipated, very well; if it did not, then he would simply have to ferret out the source if it grew too irritating. For now, he had more evidence to collect.

The lights in his room were already on.

Near closed the door behind him. He always turned the lights off when he left a room. The obvious conclusion was…

Not very original, certainly. Near was mildly disappointed.

"Matt, you may come out now."

There was a rustling from his closet. A blank-faced Matt picked his way slowly out, his eyes flat and cool. "Near."

Near walked past Matt and crouched in front of his half-finished white puzzle. His fingers began to deftly pick it apart, placing the pieces back into the nearby box one by one. "You could try being less predictable, Matt."

"You lied," Matt said simply.

It was not a question or an accusation; it was a statement. Near continued putting his puzzle away. "Explain."

"Do I need to?"

Near's mouth twitched. "Humor me."

"Yes, sir." Matt laughed softly, the first display of emotion to pass between them, but the metallic ring to it was obvious. His voice hardened. "You know I would never do something as thoughtless as murder due to a base motivation like jealousy."

Control. Matt was getting better at it.

"Do I?"

"I'm not that impulsive, nor am I cruel, unlike some I could mention."

Near smiled, although he knew Matt couldn't see it. "You have not denied my accusations, Matt."

"I thought I just did." Matt crouched next to Near, helping him to dismantle his puzzle.

"I am not amused by your evasions."

Matt's hand dropped a puzzle piece and closed around Near's. "You're an arrogant bastard," he said quietly. Near stiffened, staring at the hand clamped around his own.

"Do not—"

"Don't what?" Matt smiled faintly. "You're as touchy as Mello. Speaking of which…" Matt tightened his grip. "You have some explaining to do."

"As do you," Near retorted, though his voice was noticeably quieter. "I have done nothing questionable; _you_, on the other hand, have been exposed."

Matt smile widened into a crocodile's smirk. Near's eyes, flat and depthless, stared blankly at him, but he wasn't fooled. "I learned to read you a while back, Near. Don't you remember?"

"That is past."

"You left me for the jackals."

"You have become one of them yourself," Near hissed. He froze, suddenly aware of the emotion in his voice.

"You really believe it, don't you?" Matt's tone laughed at him. "You believe I murdered Leo. You're not sure about my motive, but you actually believe I'm capable of cold-blooded murder. You believe the absolute worst of me."

"I know what you did the feeds."

Matt remained silent, but they both knew that a point had been scored. Near stood, breaking away from Matt's grip at his wrist. "Your friend will be confused. You should assuage his worries."

Matt shook his head. "I came in here preparing to beat the crap out of you, you know."

Near merely raised an eyebrow, but Matt could see the resentment smoldering behind his eyes. "Is that so?"

"You know," Matt said, "if one of us ought to be suspicious, it should be me. You've never done anything that wasn't for your own benefit."

Near's mouth twitched. "Don't be so arrogant, Matt. Isn't that my forte?"

"I may not have murdered Leo in cold blood, but I could murder _you_."

"I do not believe either of those statements, Matt."

Their eyes met, neither of them yielding an inch. Time passed uncounted, unmarked except in heartbeats and controlled breaths. Finally, Matt's lip twitched, though the staring didn't break off. "We were never real rivals," he commented. "You've never had to fight for anything."

"I see nothing worth fighting for," Near replied calmly, still holding Matt's crisp gaze. "You are implying something, Matt."

"Of course." Matt's smile widened. "Watch out for Mello."

The faintest suggestion of a wrinkle creased Near's brow. "What?"

Matt spun around and strode languidly out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Near didn't need particularly good hearing to detect the faint strains of whistling as Matt made his way down the hall.

Near sat slowly on his bed and stared at the closed door.

_Something is wrong_.

Well, thought Near, a faint smile of satisfaction creeping across his features, now I know what.

This is going to be entertaining indeed.

--

Mello had absolutely no idea where Matt was.

He did, however, know that the hacker was probably off sulking in a closet somewhere. If he was innocent, he would be steaming and irritable and preoccupied with cursing at the nearest wall; if he was guilty, then—

Well, then he would be doing the same, wouldn't he? They were both excellent liars, after all.

This was just too much.

Matt would be avoiding him, which meant that he wouldn't be anywhere obvious—their room and the library were both out. He wouldn't be in the janitor's closet on their hall; nor would he be in the kitchens.

Good. Mello would have a place to think.

Mello really, _really_ needed a place to think.

Mello went to their room and poked around the kitchen trolley until he found Matt's black key box. He ran his fingers over the seamless, glossy surface and shook his head. Christ. This was probably the only time he'd ever get to touch the thing.

This was _so_ fucking messed up.

He trotted to the library and flipped open the concealed flap on the box, as he had seen the gamer do, revealing the display. Again mimicking Matt, he scanned the keypad, watching as digits scrolled across the black box's screen.

It worked.

He pushed the library door open and strode inside. It seemed…weird. Empty, somehow, though it shouldn't have, with the untold dozens of mahogany shelves stretching to the ceiling. It was obvious, wasn't it? He had never been here on his own before.

Mello made his way over to the Puzzle Board and laid his fingers gently on the glass surface. The screen was dark, shuttered; dust motes danced quietly below the tabletop, just out of reach. It looked dull, without the gleaming holographic projections slipping across its surface. Even the burned-in image of the hexagonal board was gone.

Mello flipped the switch on the side of the Puzzle Board and watched as the lights burst to life in a cacophony of colors. With trembling fingers, he selected a table, picked a color, and waited for the game to start.

He had no rhythm to call his own. He began by opening with exactly the wrong pawn, managing to expose his bishop before three turns were up. That mistake was quickly compensated for—White was an exceptionally poor player, and Blue and Green focused their attacks on him. But then Mello made another stupid move, and another, and another, and he was losing pieces until he had only his king and a handful of pawns, skipping around the board while Green and Yellow focused on killing each other.

Mello signed off, disgusted.

"God," he said aloud, "you can't even play Puzzle Board without Matt." He shook his head. "You're pathetic, you know that?"

The air, of course, was silent; if anything, the library seemed all the more empty for his words. Mello gripped the edges of the table and stared at the darkened screen, silent.

This wasn't right.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Control. In, out; in, out…

It was no good. He couldn't do this any more…

"Matt, could you really do it?"

Mello rubbed a thumb along the edge of the table pensively. Of course he couldn't have. Matt's not…

Not who? Not Acer?

Not Andrew.

Matt's not Andrew. He's quiet when I speak, not because he's plotting how to twist my words against me, but because he's actually listening. I can do as well as I like, I can beat him in a round in class, and he doesn't get mad. If anything, he gets mad at the bullies, like Acer; that's his only fault, his anger. If anything, he should have seen himself in Leo, not…

Not a rival. Definitely not a rival. How could Leo be a rival?

Matt's not Andrew.

Look at it objectively: Near's logic is flawed. He's grasping for a motive, that much is obvious. And—I know Matt. I know him…

I've known him for all of a month, maybe two.

_Fuck._

Mello remembered the night they had discovered the change in rankings. He remembered Matt's initial coldness, his flight; he remembered the spark of anger in his eyes at Acer's revelation. They had come so close, so very close, to breaking, then. Remembering _that_ Matt, Mello had to wonder.

That had been the same night L had called them to his office; it had been the night of Leo's murder. And Mello hadn't seen him until they met in L's office.

But, murder? Something was off…

Something was wrong, but Mello didn't know wrong from right anymore. It didn't make sense.

It couldn't be Matt.

The night of Leo's murder, at dinner, Mello had looked in Matt's eyes and had seen Andrew staring back at him, and it had been…terrifying, not because of what Andrew had done, but because of what _Matt_ had done. Matt had been…a first, a friend in the wilderness, the one to transform the hell of his life into something that was almost…enjoyable. It wouldn't have hurt for him to discover another Andrew, but to lose Matt…

Maybe happiness just_ wasn't_, for them. Maybe God was just another incarnation of Andrew, content to dangle pleasure from a string, only to snatch it away from them just as it neared their grasp.

Mello sank to the floor, leaning against the leg of the table, and he couldn't see the fading light for the growing shadows.

* * *

**AN:** The end...for now. So, what'd you lot think of it? Do tell! I can't tell you how absolutely overjoyed I was by your reviews last chappie. Apparently cliffhangers do wonders for spurring reader responses. Should I do them more often...? ;P Just kidding, don't worry! But, seriously. Thank you, everyone! Fifteen reviews last chapter...I was so thrilled. Can we break that record? 

Ah, and...if you've noticed, whether or not Matt is the murderer is **not** revealed in this chapter. Mwah! I know I upset a bunch of you--I got rants about how evil Near is, how it can't be Matt, and I also got comments saying that they had been "afraid this would happen," meaning that they thought one of the investigators could be the murderer. Well, just keep in mind--I'm not telling you the answer just yet. Everything is still up in the air at this point. You know, if that were true--and I'm not saying it is--it would be a pretty little parallel to the canon series, with L and Light. I hadn't even considered that, but it doesn't matter, because you won't know til the end who the real murderer is. laughs Oh, I feel spiffy. Mind, you DON'T know the murderer from this little post, because I'm a manipulative bastard who enjoys tormenting you all! MWAH!

...Sorry.

Anyhow! Thanks to all of you guys again. I'm beginning to fall in love with this story. This is the first time I've written a long-ish story with any hopes of finishing, and believe me--if it weren't for you lot, I would have no hope of finishing it at all.

February 15th, 2008, 4:13 PM ( --Whoa! It was Valentine's yesterday! Crappy holiday...but we got SNOW here!)


	13. Aftertaste

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

-

* * *

_What's wrong, Mello?_

Stop it. Just stop, please; it sounds so wrong, so sickening, coming from you…

_Do you really hate me that much?_

I'm not six years old anymore. Go away.

_You wound me._

Leave me alone.

_How can I? I'm here, you know, at Wammy._

What are you talking about? You're a memory, nothing more. Shut up, go away, and just_let me be…_

A low chuckle. Tell me, Mello— 

I shouldn't have told you that name.

—_Tell me, is this murder case nothing more than a _memory_ to you? I would have thought it was more important than that…especially considering who has fallen under suspicion…_

Just shut up. You're talking nonsense.

_Am I? It seems to me that you've found my reincarnation in this strange new land._

Mello woke up with laughter ringing around his skull like fingernails on tin.

He swallowed and staggered to his feet. Something was wrong. Where was he? Light glared in his eyes, blinding him, sending his already racing blood on fire with the panic of blindness.

The library. That's where he was. He had fallen asleep, and Andrew…

Just a dream.

Christ.

Mello grimaced and tried to pry open his eyes. It was still midday, apparently, if the brilliant light shining through the library windows was anything to go by. Christ. Why did the windows have to be so _big_?

He turned away from the windows and staggered behind a bookshelf, hiding from the blinding light. Mello blinked furiously until his vision began to return, the fireworks slowly fading until his sight was almost restored. At least he hadn't been out for _too_ long, if the angle of the sun was anything to go by.

He must have been more tired than he had thought, to just collapse like that. Mello felt a twinge of irritation at his own weakness. What had he been thinking? He was exposed here. If the real murderer had waltzed into the library while he had been asleep, Mello would have found himself rather vulnerable indeed.

Assuming, of course, that the real murderer wasn't Matt.

Mello groaned and leaned his head against the bookshelf. This was too confusing. Matt couldn't be the murderer, could he?

_It seems to me that you've found my reincarnation in this strange new land._

"Shut up, Andrew," Mello muttered aloud. He dug into his pocket and ferreted out on of the miniature bars of chocolate that he had taken to carrying around. Christ, but he needed it. He also needed to catch up on his sleep, but Andrew wasn't helping him in that regard.

God. Would he ever be able to get away from that voice?

The voices jabbering in his head shut up for a few moments while the wave of endorphins flooded his system. Mello closed his eyes and popped another bar into his mouth. Chocolate, at least, was dependable. It always provoked the same reaction, without fail; no matter how convoluted the world became, chocolate would remain a constant.

Mello wondered vaguely if it was scientifically possible to become dependent on chocolate.

Behind him, the door squealed open, unseen.

Mello swallowed the remaining chocolate and dropped into a crouch instinctively. Wasn't he allowed a bloody moment of peace and quiet? His heart, only just pushed back into docility, roared back to life, flooding his ears with the sound of pounding blood. Crap. This was _bad…_

All I want is to be _alone_. Is that so much to ask?

Mello mentally tallied his position. He had his back pressed against the bookshelf, and he was facing away from the door, so he wouldn't be able to see the intruder without craning his neck around a shelf and exposing himself. Conversely, the intruder couldn't see him, and might not even know he was here, but there were always the security feeds to worry about. If this person could break past the lock, then they were obviously just as savvy as…

Don't even _think_ about him, you idiot.

The door creaked again from behind him, presumably as the intruder closed it. Mello closed his eyes and silenced his breath, focusing on his hearing. The library floor was covered with thick, muffling carpet, but Mello could still make out the hesitant footfalls as the intruder made his way towards the center of the room. Mello's brow creased. The steps were hesitant, slow, as if the unknown person didn't know where he was going…

It was almost as if they didn't even know that Mello was _there_.

Mello opened his eyes as the footsteps drew closer still. He was going to be discovered; of that, there was no doubt. If he remained still, the intruder would see him; if he tried to move, he would be heard. Either way, it would be best to meet this head on.

Andrew's chuckle rang out in his mind. _So much for having forgotten my lessons, eh, little brother?_

Mello ignored the voice and rose to his feet silently. The last thing he needed was proof that he was going well and truly insane. His heels dug into the carpet as he shifted his weight. As soon as the faceless intruder passed this shelf, he would be ready…

The intruder passed his shelf.

Mello lunged.

He tackled the intruder to the ground, pinning him solidly, and drew back a fist, ready to lash out. He would _not_ be the one caught out this time…

Mello froze.

"Mello, I realize you're overjoyed to see me, but do you mind?"

Matt stared up at him languidly, the faintest shadow of wariness hovering in his eyes. Mello felt the muscles in his jaw fall slack. "Matt?"

Matt laughed, a real laugh this time, and Mello felt the gamer's chest ripple beneath his palms. "Come to your senses yet?"

Mello swallowed and obliged, rising to his feet. He stuck out his hand. "Can you get up?"

Matt snorted and clambered to his feet, ignoring the proffered hand. He winced. "Yeah, sure. My stomach hasn't exactly healed, you know. You're not helping matters."

The lazy smile was too familiar. Mello didn't match it.

Who are you? 

"Matt…"

"Yeah, what?" Matt's cockeyed grin didn't fade. Mello turned away and walked over to the Puzzle Board. He trailed his fingertips over the glass surface.

"Matt, why did you run away?"

He heard the quiet hiss of an exhaled breath behind him. There, then, the question was out.

"Mello…"

"Answer the question, Matt."

There was a pause. "I didn't hurt Leo."

"Then why run?"

"I'm human, Mello."

Mello spun around, his fingers trembling against the glass surface of the Puzzle Board. Matt stood a few feet away, slouching, gazing up at him placidly from beneath rust-stained bangs. "Are you?" Mello demanded, his voice raw. "Sometimes I wonder, Matt. After all, if you had a shred of your _humanity_ left, maybe you would have thought about the repercussions of running away like a scared little whelp with your tail between your legs."

Matt stared up at him, and _Christ_, Mello hated that blank stare. "Repercussions?" Matt repeated quietly.

"Yeah." Mello balled his hands into fists to stop his fingers from shaking. "You know, from the way you reacted, it looked an awful lot like Near was right."

Matt stiffened. "He doesn't know _anything_, Mello. Least of all anything about me."

"Is that so?" Near's bland voice flashed in his mind again, and again he heard it: the deafening silence behind him, a flicker of stripes out a door, a splinter of wood digging into his finger.

_Isn't it obvious, Mello? Matt was jealous._

Mello swallowed the bile rising in his throat and glared at the gamer. "You owe me some answers, Matt. Why did you run?"

The apathetic chill in Matt's eyes thawed. "I can't give you that answer, Mello."

"Fucking Christ, Matt, you've got to give me something to work with!" Mello's fist slammed onto the Puzzle Board. "Answer me!"

"I can't."

"And why is that?" Mello's head swung around to glare at Matt, and for just a moment, the calm resolve in Matt's eyes flickered at the sight of the raw anger locked in that sapphire gaze. "What am I supposed to fucking believe, Matt? Tell me that!"

"I didn't hurt Leo," Matt said quietly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I can't tell you anything else."

"That's not bloody good enough, and you know it!" Mello straightened and strode towards his one-time friend, closing the few feet between them. "Answer me, Matt."

His voice hissed out a few inches from Matt's face. Matt averted his eyes. "Calm down, Mello."

"Like hell," Mello growled. His voice had sunk to a new low, and Matt felt a chill shiver up his spine. This was hot anger, the kind that used its host, but it was controlled, concentrated, forged into a lethal weapon that obeyed none but its own will.

Matt swallowed. "Mello, please."

They both knew it was coming. Mello's fist slammed into the side of Matt's cheek. The gamer's head snapped to the side, silently, as a dull, throbbing fire spreading throughout his entire face. Mello's breathing came in ragged jerks, great, steaming hisses that grated in Matt's ears.

Mello turned away, resting his white-knuckled fists on the top of the Puzzle Board. Matt probed the spreading bruise carefully with his fingertips. Nothing was broken, physically, but psychologically…

Well, hell, they had both been shattered beyond repair to begin with, hadn't they?

Mello's voice broke the silence, brittle and raw. "Why do you never fight back?"

Matt looked up sharply, surprised. He hadn't been expecting _that_. "You tell me," he replied quietly. "You know me too well, after all."

"Like I hell I know you." It was nothing more than a whisper, but Matt heard it.

"Didn't you ask me if I was a masochist, last time?" Matt offered him a crooked smile, forgetting the bruise on his face. He winced. "_Ow_. Well, maybe you were right, eh?"

"You need to fight back," Mello whispered, and he was addressing Matt, but he was speaking to the table. He uncurled one fist and began tracing slow circles over the glass. "I don't know how you manage it, Matt."

Matt shrugged. "Maybe I'm just a coward."

Mello's mouth twitched. "Yeah." He sighed and stared numbly down at the Puzzle Board, unseeing. "You say you didn't hurt Leo."

"I didn't."

"You're keeping something from me," Mello murmured. "What am I supposed to do, Matt?"

Matt offered him a faint smile. "I guess that's up to you, eh?"

"I suppose." Mello shuddered. "I _want_ to trust you, you know."

"Yeah."

The sun's rays danced across the glass surface of the Puzzle Board, and Mello closed his eyes to keep himself from being blinded.

- -

---

- -

Near slammed the lid of his laptop shut.

He set it to the side of the bed and drew his knees to his chest. This latest development was…irritating. He had not expected Mello to react in that fashion.

He hadn't seen this…any of it. He had not expected Matt to bring home a stray child, of all things; he had not expected a stray to adapt so quickly to the fast-paced rigor of Wammy education. Nor had he expected that stray to climb to the top without amassing any of the scars that had shredded the minds of the former elite.

Ah, Matt, Mail, whoever you are—are you proud of yourself? This little prodigy might have outdone us both, were it not for your own misstep. In regards to academics, he is nothing; in terms of the true competition, though, he might have had potential indeed, and you know it, but what shall become of him now?

He had not expected to unearth Matt's handiwork in his investigation, but it was undeniably there. He had not foreseen this…any of it…but it was undeniably present, and the more disturbing for it.

Numbly, Near reopened his laptop. The screen with the security feed from the library was still open, but he ignored it, instead pulling up another window—a clip from Camera 17g, the last known record of Leo's life.

Near's left hand twisted in his hair as his right directed the cursor. He executed a now-familiar line of commands and watched, silent, as the scene unfolded before him. First there was Leo, walking down the hallway; next came Leo again, but smoother, somehow less real; next to disappear was the silhouette of his shadow against the floor. The fourth time the feed played Leo was nothing more than a three-dimensioned vector, like a jerky cartoon character; the fifth and final time, he was gone completely.

To Near's knowledge, Matt was the only student in all of Wammy with the ability to create ghosts with such skill. Normally students merely disabled heat-sensors or overlaid existing feeds with a short series of still frames. Matt, on the other hand, viewed ghosting the cameras as an art; his creations were always textured, dimensioned, shaded,_perfect_…

It had taken Near thirty-one hours, thirty-two minutes and forty-nine seconds to finalize this decoding algorithm, the product of an idea he had been dwelling on for months, and while it stripped Matt's ghosts down to their skeletons, it did nothing to explain the motive behind them.

This was a curious situation indeed.

There were, excluding L, three investigators. The first, Matt, was obviously involved in the crime itself in some way—and yet, he claimed not to have hurt Leo. He was also suffering from guilt—_that_ was as undeniable as his meddling with the feeds, because Near knew full well that Matt should have stood up to Mello, if his past experiences with the redhead were anything to go by.

The second investigator, Mello, was in the middle of a psychological breakdown. He had broken every rule of Wammy House by making a _friend_, with a rival, no less, and his ability to think objectively was all but gone.

And the third investigator was Near himself. Near's fingers twined around a curl of pale hair, tugging, pulling. There was no need to analyze his own situation. Near knew full well that the moment Matt had become involved, any chances of objectivity on his own part had vanished. Their rivalry was too strong. Near would _not_ lose this round.

_You left me for the jackals, Near._

_And you, Matt, have become one of them yourself._

True, both of them, on both counts, and now the abyss separating them could only be bridged by recriminations and rivalry.

Near's eyes drifted to the library camera feed. It was paused from when he had shut the lid of his laptop: the still was of Mello and Matt, a pair of broken children, sharing a moment of agonizing uncertainty, silent.

He had known Matt, once; he had never known Mello.

But this…

It grated to know that he _didn't_ know. Staring at the still frame of the library scene, all Near could see were two faces, mirrors of each other, and each reflected the silent suffering of the other and somehow managed to transform it into something bordering on…hope, almost. Understanding.

He had not expected this.

_Any_ of it.

Near had two puzzles that needed finishing; he had analyses to run on video feeds; he had a ten-deck pack of cards that needed to be broken in.

Near simply remained there, on his bed, staring at the alien scene glowing before him on his laptop screen, and for the first time in years it struck him that Matt had actually _beaten _him.

--

---

--

The morning dawned wet and cold.

Winter was quickly approaching, though for the most part it went unnoticed. For most of the Wammy students, the change in seasons merely meant a change in the scenery outside their windows; enforcing outdoors activities was an unproductive chore on the staff's part, and so most of the pupils eagerly contented themselves inside. Outside was a place for the weak to hide on weekends, secure in the knowledge that no bully would care to venture into a bramble thicket.

Mello had experienced no such isolation in his childhood. Outside—that had a been a foreign place at home, true enough, but once he had severed Andrew's hand, he had fled, and his new home—

Well, Matt had discovered his little cardboard castle, hadn't he?

Mello had spent long enough in the crisp embrace of "fresh air" that he hadn't objected upon discovering that he was under no obligation to venture outside. He hadn't felt _real_ air on his face since the day L arrived, and he did _not_ appreciate the sensation now.

If Matt hated the sun, Mello _loathed_ the rain.

The cold seeped into his bones and wormed its way under his skin; the sticky humidity clogged his throat and weighed down his hair. It was going to rain. He _knew_ it was going to rain, and that did absolutely nothing for his mood.

Mello was stretched tauter than a tightrope, and the Powers That Were apparently didn't feel like making his life any easier.

When all else fails, blame God.

They were supposed to be quiet, waiting for the memorial service to begin, but Mello couldn't keep his fingers from picking at the sleeves of the prim black suit that had materialized in his closet. Suffering, in all of its varied forms, disturbed him; whether it was the supposedly harmless bullying of schoolchildren or the precise rage of Andrew's games, Mello was _not_ capable of remaining calm in the face of pain, whether it was his or another's. And now, to be staring the pinnacle of suffering, at the final goal that Andrew would have reached, eventually, had Mello not lashed out first—

It was terrifying, for lack of a better word.

Mello decided that he_ hated _funerals.

Leo had been cremated rather than buried; his family, apparently, had had a tradition of doing so, and unlike some of them, Leo had been snatched from his family by misfortune, rather than by abandonment. Wammy had chosen to honor their precedent. It left more of a memorial service than a funeral; L was to scatter the ashes over the river that ran behind Wammy House, on the edges of the grounds.

Mello had thought it vaguely poetic, until the enormity of the situation struck him.

He didn't need to look at Matt to know that he would be quietly mocking, contemptuous—outwardly, at least. Outwardly, Matt would laugh at the irony of Mello's situation; after all, the mere fact that it was _raining_ had set him off, earlier in the room, inducing a fit of uncontrollable shivering and a _need_ for chocolate. And now, so close to death, with the thoughts of finality suddenly real, tangible—

Matt was hiding behind his sneer, but Mello was too busy monitoring his heart rate to care.

Oh, God, but he needed his chocolate.

This was too much, all of it. The rain-smell brought flashbacks of the alleys, cold, hard memories that bit at his skin. Mello had been treating their investigation as another exercise, another task. He had lost touch of the human quality behind the endless parade of video feeds and logic charts, somewhere along the line, and until today, he had forgotten that their was a _real_ victim, a duplicate of himself who had died in the name of Darwinism.

And worst of all, Matt was there, and Mello hadn't the faintest idea how to act. The gamer's silent presence hummed tautly behind him, but Mello ignored him; any words he might have said stuck in his throat, unuttered.

There weren't too many of them there. Leo had been new, weak, an object of disinterest to any of his classmates. Mello saw a handful of the quieter students, the ones he had come to recognize as shadows—the weak, the bullied, the ones who clung tenaciously to their consciences, despite Wammy life. He skipped over them quickly, memorizing faces for future reference but not dwelling upon individuals. Near was here, standing mutely in the back of the group, eyes downcast, and Mello stayed as far away from him as possible. He barely had enough self-control to do that much, but risking a fight, at Leo's memorial service—that would be completely and utterly _disgusting_.

His eyes continued to skip over the crowd, just because it was easier than allowing his mind to skip from thought to thought. They were gathered in the clearing overlooking the stream, waiting. In a move that might have surprised Mello at another time, L had quietly decided on a very specific procedure that was unusually thoughtful. At 7:13 precisely, he would begin speaking, a quiet eulogy touching on Leo's life and on his death. Anyone who wished to speak would be given five minutes to do so following L's eulogy. And then, at 7:32, when the sun passed directly over the river and stroked its waters into a glimmering blaze, L would scatter the ashes.

It wasn't even seven o'clock, but Mello had wanted to get to the clearing early. He had thought that the time to think would be…therapeutic, somehow. Instead, he just felt confused, stressed, hunted.

And then another group of boys joined the gathering.

Mello, his eyes turned to the stream, heard the gentle crunching of footsteps on grass before he turned and saw the massive assembly of boys. From the unassuming gait, he had expected a troupe of latecomers, nothing more; instead he found himself greeted by the full-fledged pack of one of Wammy's best-known terrors. Acer was flanked on both sides by three rows of cronies, three boys to each side. He met Mello's eyes and held the blonde's glittering gaze silently, as if asking, 'What?'

Acer flicked a hand dismissively and shifted his eyes to the river behind Mello. As one, the eighteen boys silently fell out of formation, relaxing into a more casual grouping of unfocused eyes. Acer himself followed their lead, staring quietly into the rising sun.

Mello swallowed. Acer had brought his whole pack. This was…it was…

Anger rose like bile in his throat. This had been meant to be a memorial service, a brief tribute to an all-too-familiar stranger. Mello had barely known Leo, and yet his life was hopelessly entangled in the younger boy's death. This was not something that was meant to be shared, least of all by the one who had been his terror in life. Did Acer have to torment Leo in death, as well?

Acer's eyes flicked back to the present and he strode slowly towards Mello. Mello felt his muscles instinctively relax, loosening with the sensation of the tension humming in the air. Only a fool tensed at the sign of a fight.

_There is no fight,_ Mello reminded his unconscious silently. _Not a physical one, anyway._

"Mello." The name rolled curiously off of Acer's tongue, flavored with a strange blend of aloofness and respect, regret and embarrassment. Mello felt his muscles loosen still further. Something was off, here…

"Acer," he returned, coldly. Better to immerse his voice in steel than to have it shatter from the strain of quiet courtesy. Acer lowered his head, looking up at Mello from half-closed eyelids. Something was definitely wrong here; where was the defiance, the arrogance?

Acer fiddled with the sleeve of his own suit. "I just wanted to come here to pay my respects, Mello, whatever you think of me."

_Liar,_ Mello's mind roared. He struggled to maintain his composure. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"I don't believe you."

The words jumped from his tongue before he could silence them, but really, he didn't care to take them back. Behind him, he heard Matt's quiet breathing hitch, then continue. Acer's head jerked up, all traces of submission gone.

"Leo was mine," Acer replied simply, but Mello didn't have to be good at reading people to hear the raw anger coursing through his voice. "He was _ours_, and you wouldn't know about that, would you, Mello? You don't know about packs, and neither does your little third-place has-been, even if he thinks he's smart. I won't pretend that I'm a nice fluffy father figure out of some child's fairytale, but he was _mine_." Acer paused and tilted his head to the side, rationality returning to his face. "You're investigating, aren't you?"

It wasn't a question. Mello inclined his head in brief acknowledgement. "Good," Acer said. "Because I sure as hell expect you to catch our little murderer—and _soon_." Before Mello could open his mouth to respond, Acer was walking away, falling back in with his pack while they waited for L to arrive.

Mello swallowed strange fluttering in his stomach and turned back to the river. Matt remained as silent as always, a shadow of a ghost by his side.

And across the clearing, Near watched the entire exchange, his eyes bright.

L arrived in due course. The speech he gave was quiet, but _real_—again, it should have surprised Mello to hear humanity streaming out of the robotic detective's mouth, but somehow it seemed fitting. Nothing was as it had been.

L did not lie. He did not pretend to emotions that they all knew to be nonexistent; he did not pretend to have known Leo well. Instead, he spoke briefly, simply; he spoke sparsely of orphanhood and of the perils of genius. And he closed with a quiet promise.

"This crime will _not_ be forgotten."

The sun reached that predetermined point over the river. The stream's surface shimmered with the delicate hues of pink and orange as the sun's rays set the steaming curtains of damp air on fire. The flat, gray clouds took on life; the scent of rain mixed with the taste of sunlight. L strode to the edge of the clearing, standing over the overhang, and emptied the urn.

Mello watched as the ashes drifted down into the river. It was supposed to have been a poetic scene, pretty, a gentle conclusion to a chapter of violence.

Instead, as he watched the river swallowed the gray remnants of Leo's life, Mello felt the stream's waters close over the last vestiges of certainty he had possessed.

There was ash in his mouth and blood at his throat, and the rain began to drip from the sky, drowning out the feathery colors of the sunrise.

-

-

-

* * *

**AN:** My brain is...dead. I mean, DEAD. I apologize in advance if there's something off here, typos or grammar or...bleeeuuurgh. I am DEAD. For the past three days I have had all of...negative thirty minutes or so of free time. I go to sleep and my brain starts babbling about ancient Egyptian civilization or about the Disc Method or sixtuplets. Too much schoolwork...just...too much...

Okay, enough whining. Sorry. XD I needed to whine. And I keep slipping on update time, too. I had set a goal for myself to do a chapter a week, but it's been eight days. Not too shabby, but it's irksome to know that I just didn't have any bloody _time_. Oh--and I'm leaving for a Model UN conference on Thursday, and I'll be gone til Sunday, so it may take me a while to post the next one, too. Sorry:(

I hope everyone was satisfied with this chapter. :) Yep, so Near's played a tiny little part here as well. I know he's not acting all stereotypical-autistic-emotionless-alien-kid, but my Near just...isn't...that way. You'll see. None of them are completely mature yet, obviously; Mello still isn't competitive, really, and there's a good deal of plot to go. Jeez...how long is this going to take? I'm enjoying myself. The funeral scene at the end has so much potential to be cliched, but Acer saved it, don't you think? Meh. They're all a bunch of messed up kids. Do review; I need the stimulus. As usual, I'm behind in replying to reviews, but as soon as I post this it's bedtime for me. Sorry, again, but I promise I'll reply to all of the Chap.12 reviews tomorrow...

Hey, we're almost at 100 reviews. Lookit dat! I love you guys.

February 23, 2008. 11:22 PM


	14. Splinter

**AN:** Before we begin, an apology. As I said in the last chapter, I had a Model United Nations conference to attend this weekend, and it ate my brain. Seriously. Besides being taxing in the mental sense, we also had to run around downtown Baltimore like crazy just to get food and get back to our sessions on time, in dress clothes. I now have callouses on my feet, and they hurt. (How do you develop callouses in four days?)

Anyway, enough self-pity. Suffice to say two things: First, the quality of this chapter may be lacking, because I haven't gutted it as often as I usually do. Second, it's short. Sorry. To explain both counts: I wanted to get this off my computer and up here ASAP, because...well, because. It was bugging me. Sigh. In any event, I hope you find this latest installment palatable...

* * *

Mello shivered and drew the blankets closer to his chest. 

His eyelids sagged, blinked, and then flew open again, to stare wide into the dark as he counted time in slow breaths and sluggish heartbeats. Behind him, Matt's stomach rose and fell in flawless rhythm, and Mello found him matching the gamer's steady beat of respiration unconsciously. His breathing slowed, torpid, and his eyelids sank. Again he snapped into wakefulness, trading the warm darkness of almost-sleep for the gray grain of the room.

Mello would not allow himself to sleep.

The dim gleam of red numerals shifted dully to one-thirty from Matt's bedside table. Mello bit his lip, savoring the warm spread of pain that flowed from the swelling wound. He had worn his lip raw, by now, because it was just so _useful_ and so practical and—well, he didn't really have a choice, did he? One-thirty, the clock read, one-thirty—that meant it would be another five hours or so before he could justify "waking up." The rich tang of blood spread across his tongue and he relaxed the pressure on his bruised lip. How many times had he gone through this same cycle back home, needing the sleep but too afraid to relax his guard? Soon, Matt had remarked a while back, Wammy was supposed to start their sleep-deprivation training, but Mello hadn't batted an eye. Like the gamer, he had known that the real terrors of the night lurked not under the bed, but outside the door, and Mello was well used to staying up for days at a time, forgoing sleep in return for safety.

The old danger was past, of course—the physical danger, at any rate. Andrew was…gone, away, somewhere, no doubt bitterly happy that his so-called angel of a brother was gone. Mello didn't care about the physical world. He could run from people, but nightmares and memories were harder to shake.

Mello bit down on his lip again, worrying the wound until the blood pooled. The self-discipline of pain was a tried and true method, even if it was horribly obvious. He didn't care about that anymore, though; he couldn't care. He had walked these paths before, not too long ago, and it was comfortingly familiar. Mello felt his bruised lip curling into a smile. For every night he had used pain as a spur to keep sleep at bay, there had been a day of meeting the glassy-eyed grin of his cheerful mother. Once he had wondered if she purposefully exposed him to Andrew's wrath out of spite or indifference, but no—she was just…_stupid_, and that had been one of the worst realizations Mello had ever made.

She had never noticed the lacerations that gouged and clawed their way across his abdomen; she had never noticed his chronically swollen lips or the white streaks along his arms. Andrew's wounds hadn't been nearly as evident as those Mello—_Mihael_—had inflicted on himself, but she had never noticed any of it. And now, Mello wondered, now—would Matt notice?

Did it matter?

Small sacrifices of the present to prevent large sacrifices of the future—wasn't that the way things were supposed to work? Wasn't this a futile effort? Sleep would ensnare him in its traitorous embrace, even if it took days, and when it did, he would be too exhausted to wrench himself into wakefulness. And then, of course, Andrew's sibilant hiss would return to haunt the shadows, and Mello would be gone, replaced with Mihael Keehl…

Mello shuddered again and forced himself to concentrate on the crimson glow of the clock. One forty-three, they read now—thirteen minutes closer to dawn. He hadn't expected it to come to this. Nightmares had plagued him most of his life, true, but he had left them behind in his cardboard hideout in the alley. Andrew had been pushed to the back of his consciousness, just as his mental processes had been stifled while his body learned to cope with the consequences of running away. Mello, the identity that had come into being at Wammy, had never experienced the shadow of Andrew lurking over his shoulder. True, there had been the one incident in the library, with the fit of fainting, but Mello had been able to shove all of his previous memories into a vault buried deep beneath layers of willful suppression.

Why was Andrew coming back now?

Mello blinked at the floating numbers and forced himself to think. When had the nightmares started up again? It must have been…

Ah, yes. The night they had learned about Leo. Wasn't that just _wonderful_?

Mello stifled the bubble of laughter that rose in his throat. He didn't want to wake the gamer—certainly not before two in the morning, anyway, because that would require talking to him. Still, a grin scrawled itself across his face in the darkness. It was ridiculously fitting that Andrew's memory would be resurrected in the wake of a murder. Violence feeds upon itself, doesn't it, Andrew? Well, congratulations; the snake shall devour its own tail, because you've given me the kick I needed to focus solely on this case.

All he needed was to find that dispassionate focus his elder brother had excelled at, and Andrew's shadow would become a help rather than a hindrance. After all, petty things like friendship paled in comparison to Andrew's massive influence, and with that _voice_ in his ear, what would be more important than solving the case…?

Mello strangled another croak of laughter. He had never been strong enough for _that_.

He was beginning to understand Near, now. That iron mask the albino wore—even if it was all for show, it must have been damned effective at forcing him to act the part. Dedication and ruthless determination were practically assured if you had to maintain that sort of alias.

Mello's smirk widened, and if he was damned if he knew who he was laughing at. It could have been Andrew, their mother, Near, Matt, Mihael, or Mello; in reality, did it even matter?

Mello slipped his hands under his head and grinned into the darkness as moisture built behind his eyes and blood welled at his lip. The salt trailed fiery tracks down his face, and one thought whirled around the cavern of his skull, pulsing to the beat of his blood.

_This is insanity—it must be, for what else can reality be called?_

_Lord our God, Andrew, Fate, Fortune, whoever you may be—I hope you're enjoying this show._

--

---

--

L sighed and set down his plate of chocolates.

The glowing mosaic of screens before him shot into darkness with a curt flip of a switch. L spun his chair around and leapt nimbly to his feet, landing on the carpet with the soft grace of a cat well accustomed to its territory. He paused at that thought, frowning, as his thumb slipped between his lips again. No, L mused, interrupting his own internal narration, that was not a correct simile. Physically, this building was the same as always, disregarding a few minor renovations, but this territory was far from familiar.

He was so very tired of all of this.

"Quilish," he said aloud, knowing that the elderly man would hear. "Have you discovered any new developments?"

The familiar voice crackled promptly over the speakers. "No, L."

L's breath fluttered in the air as he stood forlornly behind his chair. Behind him, the myriad of computer screens hummed with silenced energy, their presence an oppressive force that set his teeth on edge.

He wasn't getting anywhere with this.

"Quilish."

"Yes, L?"

L lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Come in, please."

The room was small, cramped, taken up almost entirely by the massive banks of monitors and a riot of wiring that would have put Matt to shame. L preferred it that way; in the close darkness, with his surroundings lit only by the glow of the computer screens, he could focus, forgetting the outside world in favor of his current occupation.

What Quilish Wammy saw upon entering the narrow office was not the usual status of the room, however. Normally, L would be perched precariously on the edge of his chair, staring upwards at the blazing monitors with rapt attention. Now, though, he was out of his chair completely, slouching with his face towards the wall and his back towards a set of dark screens.

L never turned off the screens.

He must have noted the look of passive bemusement on Wammy's face, because L's eyes drifted from his introspection to meet the gaze of his longtime companion.

L offered Quilish a crooked half-smile. "Are you well, Quilish?"

It was an abrupt question, and they both knew it. Wammy paused, turning the words around in his mind, examining the different facets and the hidden layers. In the end, he simply answered it at face value. "Reasonably so, L. Are you?"

"I am not."

L turned his back on Quilish and crossed the scant distance to his chair. "I am not," he repeated, stronger. "However, that is none of your concern."

"Of course, L."

L didn't see the creasing of Wammy's brow, but he did hear the softening of the tone. He clambered into the chair and spun it around, so that he was facing the silent screens of the monitors again. "Have you examined Near's finding on your own?"

Quilish padded quietly over to stand at his onetime pupil's shoulder. "Of course," he repeated, faintly reproving. "I do know my duties, L."

"My apologies." L's hand flipped the switch and jabbed at a number of buttons. One of the screens whirred to life; the others remained dark. "What is your opinion of his conclusion?"

"It is undeniably Matt's work," Wammy replied promptly. "We are both aware that none other could pull off that feat, L." The aforementioned detective leaned over his keyboard and began typing in the access code.

"I requested an analysis, Quilish."

"I believe you are the one more qualified to make that analysis, L."

L's fingers halted on the keyboard. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come now, L. That card died out a long time ago."

The bony frame stiffened. "Wammy."

"I stand by my point."

L craned his neck upwards, meeting the elderly man's eyes. It was quite the contrast. L's eyes reflected the dim, sickly light of the cold computer screen, like a pair of dark mirrors that shielded a hollow interior. Quilish's gaze, on the other hand, was warm with understanding and a peculiar sort of kindness that L absolutely _loathed_.

"I am not your student any longer, Wammy."

Wammy smiled. "Are you being objective, L?"

L's onyx eyes darkened still farther for a moment, but then his lips abruptly curled upwards into the crooked half-moon that Quilish knew so well. "Of course not."

Quilish's smile widened. "As long as we're clear, then."

"Yes." L sighed and turned back to the computer screen. "My apologies, Wammy."

"They are unnecessary, as you know."

"My gratitude, then." L frowned and tapped the computer screen. It responded to his touch, bringing up the very video that Near had been carefully examining not too long ago. "Still, the question remains."

"You need to know his motive."

"Yes."

"Tell me, L. What motive could Matt possibly have?"

L's thumb slipped into his mouth, absently fingering the ridges of his teeth. "I do not know."

"Do you believe he was jealous?"

"No." L's voice was firm. "Near did not even believe that himself, and I see no reason to indulge in such conveniently flawed logic. Matt is above that."

Wammy's fingers drummed on the edge of L's chair. "And how well do you know Matt?"

L's eyes rolled upwards to meet Wammy's again. "I had an integral part in shaping his character, Wammy. I believe that I know him more than well enough to say that he is not so petty."

"Ah, yes." Wammy's mouth twitched. "You did shape his character, didn't you?"

"It was necessary," L retorted, too quickly. "You shaped mine as well, Quilish Wammy. Do not hold me to morals that you cannot fulfil yourself."

"I was not heedlessly cruel—"

"This is a topic for another day," L interrupted, and they both heard the brittle chill that had doused his voice. "I was asking about Matt's possible motive, I believe. Do you believe he is capable of Leo's murder, Wammy?"

Quilish Wammy paused and looked past the untidy thicket of black hair to the computer screen, where the ghost-Leo was frozen in time, courtesy of Mail Jeevas.

"Perhaps," he replied, slowly, the words falling from his lips with reluctant deliberation. "Given the proper circumstances—yes."

"That was my conclusion as well," L murmured. He glanced down at the narrow strip of desk before him. On it was an opened manila folder, overflowing with reports and printouts and photographs, all relating to one redheaded prodigy.

"After all," L mused, touching an index finger to one of the photographs in Matt's file, "I did model his education after my own." He turned in his chair again to face Wammy. "I believe he should be pulled from the investigation team—temporarily, at least."

Wammy gave a little half-bow from the waist. "As you wish, L."

L heard the mockery layered beneath the impeccable respect, heard the smooth condescension of a practiced puppeteer. He heard, but he didn't listen.

Human emotions such as empathy had rarely served him in the past; why would he begin to consider them now? More importantly—why begin at the urging of one who trumped any of the Wammy children in matters of cold apathy? If he had loyalties at all, they were owed to his victims, his brethren, his successors-to-be.

"Thank you, Wammy. Again, you have my gratitude."

Two could play at this game.

--

---

--

Mello saw the brittle glass in Matt's eyes when Brian handed him the note. The adult grinned down at them, laughing silently behind sympathetic affectations, ignorant of his own ignorance to such a degree that it made Mello sick.

The note inspired sickness, too, but it was sickness of a different sort. It was a sickness of the kind that stemmed from a twisted conscious and an entangled mind; it was the uneasy nausea induced by the forced acknowledgement that _yes_, L though that Matt could actually be—what? A threat? A suspect?

_Matt,_

_Your services are not required in the investigation for the time being. L feels that it would be best if you were to return to classes until further notice so as not to halt your education any longer than has already occurred._

_Wammy_

So cold, the note, so cold, and it left very little open to interpretation. Its meaning was clear, just as if Wammy had spelled it out in person. Mello, too, had received a note—a summons, really, declaring that L wished to speak with him immediately following breakfast. The morning had left a sour taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with insomnia or blood, and Mello was beginning to wonder when it would all _end_.

"L thinks it was me," Matt said dully, once Brian was gone. "He _agrees_ with that albino freak."

Mello didn't look at his friend. He remained on the bed, hands crossed beneath his skull, and stared at the ceiling. "Does L normally do things without evidence, Matt?"

There was a hissed intake of breath from the other side of the room. "Yeah," Matt replied, voice clipped. "He's known for whimsy."

"If that's the case, why worry? You'll get out of pointless data crunching, after all, _and_ you don't have to keep up your act."

"Mello, c'mon. I'm not…"

"In the mood. I get it. Sorry." Mello closed his eyes. Even to his own ears, the apology rang false. "It's really easy to needle you, y'know?"

"Mello…"

"Stop calling my name."

Once upon a time, the silences between them had been easy and soft, disturbed only by the tapping of fingers on Puzzle pieces and whispers of synchronized breaths. Now, the silence stretched taut and thin, brittle, like a memory of ice.

A hairline crack raced through the ice, leaving splinters in its wake, and the water that seeped to the surface was rich and red and thick.

* * *

**Closing Note:** I really do need to extend a warm thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I got my fourteen reviews--the second-highest yet--and we hit 100 **exactly!** How exciting is that? I did a happy dance when I got back from MUN and saw all the alerts in my email. Oh, the joy! In any event, my apologies for not replying to you all by now; see the rant in my top author's note for an explanation. I look forward to hearing from all of you again, for this chapter. ; 

Opinions, proofreading, critique--all are welcome. PLEASE help me if you see typos/questionable grammar.

Thank you, everyone!

Fly

March 4th, 2008. 6:55 AM (Yikes! Gotta go!)


	15. Forge

**AN:** Hello, everyone! I do apologize for the last chapter. I could have (should have) expanded it, but as I said--it was long past time I gave you guys something. Anyway. I have tried to get this chapter up to a more appropriate wordcount. I'm none too sure about it, quality-wise--I'm working with too many characters right now, and I'm a bit out of my comfort zone, but I am _not_ cutting entire sections again. Heh.

Enjoy. :)

* * *

"L, I think you owe me an explanation." 

The flat tone was so very familiar. L wondered vaguely if Wammy would be listening. How many times had that sentence been uttered in this building, in all the years that Quilish Wammy had presided over countless orphans? How many tongues had shaped those syllables with that flat not-rage, each in a different time and each with their anger targeted at a different husk of a being?

"I am aware of that, Mello," he replied, because he _did_ owe this victim an explanation. He owed Matt one, as well, but that was impossible until his program finished running, and depending on the outcome—well, that would decide everything, wouldn't it?

Mello was waiting, drumming the fingers of one hand impatiently against the arm of the chair. L drew his thoughts back to reality. "I am in no way convinced that Matt is indeed the murderer," he said bluntly, getting straight to the point. "However, the possibility exists, agreed?" Mello inclined his head grudgingly. "Now that the possibility has been brought up, I believe it would be reckless on my part to include him in this investigation any longer."

"Funny," Mello remarked. "Here I thought you actually cared about his schooling."

The caustic, absurd bit of sarcasm almost startled a laugh out of L, but he cut it off with deft dexterity. His face remained as smooth and apathetic as always, unwilling to yield to such a juvenile attack. "Wammy wrote that letter," L said dismissively. "I never claimed such a thing."

Mello was studying him, scrutinizing him, like a bug trapped in the glass of a microscope inspecting its apathetic examiner. Apparently, he caught sight of the slight glimmer of amused sarcasm in L's voice, because his scowl twisted into a strange, irate smirk. "Regardless of what you claimed," Mello retorted, his icy tone thawing into a hurried rush of words as he continued, "Matt believes that you agree with Near, and given the current circumstances, I—I don't think that Near's assumption is unreasonable."

L felt one of his eyebrows quirk. He should have expected Mello to defy the mental profile that L had been building of him; if he knew anything at all, it was that this boy, this newcomer, was _not_ standard Wammy fare. Again, L caught himself questioning the malleability of the human persona. Who had possessed such disturbing power over this blonde-haired not-child that he had grown into something at once resembling a Wammy-raised prodigy and something that was completely and utterly foreign?

Again, L forced his focus to return to the physical child in front of him, not the mental concept. That was one danger, when one's intelligence climbed too high—it was always easy, too easy, to disassociate from the physical world in favor of one's own thoughts. If the brutality of Wammy House accomplished anything, it forced most children to pay attention to their surroundings, at the risk of their well being. "Are you asking me a question?" he inquired to Mello. "I honestly did not expect you to be…conciliatory."

Mello's face finally broke out into a full-fledged wry grin, but L didn't miss the shadow of storm clouds over his sky-blue eyes. "Fat chance of that," Mello retorted, though his voice dipped. His smile disappeared. "But, L—have you got any evidence that Matt and I didn't have?"

L paused, watching the hunger in those blue eyes warily. "Nothing important at the moment," he replied evenly, after waiting a moment to assess his words. "I have a program of Near's which strips Matt's ghosts away. The last feed in which we thought we had seen Leo was a clever manipulation by your friend. Near determined the process by which Matt creates ghosts and wrote a program that reverses it, thus proving that it was indeed Matt who altered that feed."

Mello's eyes paled visibly to an icy blue that came close to Near's almost-white irises. His tongue darted out to lick at his swollen lips, an instinctive reaction that made the tart tang of blood seep into his mouth. "You said that wasn't the important evidence. The important stuff you don't have—not _right now_, but it's coming."

L felt like sighing. He really did need more sweets; apparently, his recent (and minor) reduction in his sugar intake was affecting his mental processes more than he had previously thought. "Your interpretation is correct," he replied truthfully. "I am currently running a modified version of Near's program that processes all of the security feeds within the suspect period and alerts me whenever any modified sequences are discovered. It will be completed within a week's time."

Mello paused for a minute, working through the implications of L's statement. "You'll know what he was doing at the time of the murder once it's done, won't you?"

"Yes."

"And?"

L blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"L…" Mello handled the letter gently, drawing it out. "What if it's…what if it _was_ Matt?"

"I wasn't aware that that would be a problem." L tilted his head to the side. "Regardless of the murderer's identity, I plan on taking proper action. An investigation leaves no room for frivolity."

Mello licked his lips again. "But I—"

"It is irrelevant," L replied, meeting Mello's gaze with his best look of willful naiveté. "I don't believe that Matt's guilt or his innocence ought to affect anything for you. After all, you will simply receive a new roommate. Regardless of his actions, Matt himself is no different from who he was when you first met him—"

"You bastard," Mello cut in, a note of strained disbelief in his voice. "My god. I don't believe it. Matt was right about you."

L's thumb slipped into his mouth. "I did not say anything with the purpose of upsetting you, Mello. I was merely stating facts."

Mello's palms slammed against the desk as he rose from his chair. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. You _were_ stating facts, weren't you?"

The anger burning in Mello's eyes was too feral, too foreign; it was _not_ Wammy-bred, and therefore unknown. "Emotions cloud your judgement," L retorted, keeping his arrogant self-assurance carefully in place. "Objectivity ought to be your end goal, Mello."

Mello's knuckles were quickly losing their color. L kept his eyes trained carefully on Mello's chest, waiting for the telltale twitch in the muscles that would alert him if the blonde decided that having a swing at the detective would be the best relief for his stress.

The twitch came, but not with violent intent; Mello stepped backwards and spat at the carpet, a tiny symbol of defiance that was dimmed by the flat, hollow look in the twin blue eyes. "You're a bastard," Mello said, the taut heat of anger barely banked behind his words. "Matt's innocent. You'll see, and you'll prove yourself the idiot, and you had better bet that we're _not_ going to forget that so easily."

It was a blatant lie, as easily read as a schoolchild's primer to L's practiced eye—Mello _wasn't_ convinced that Matt was innocent, and it was obviously making him miserable. L shook his head. "You are not being objective, Mello. I refuse to place blind faith in emotions, and I expect you to learn to do the same."

Mello snorted and turned on his heel, wrapping bravado around him like a threadbare cloak. "Yeah. Because _I_ mold to your whims like everyone else."

The sound of the door slamming followed him into the hallway. L's brow creased as he stared at the wooden barrier, musing over what had just happened. Behind it, Mello's footsteps sounded off the tile, sure and confident and just a little fast.

L bit down on his thumb, hard. This was…

…harder than he had thought it would be.

L made it a business not to _pretend_ anything, particularly those emotions that he had long since learned to ignore. It felt so…strange to have to pretend _apathy_, to pretend coldness, of all things.

And here Matt had thought him nothing more than an 'apathetic bastard,' to borrow that _elegant_ term.

L sighed. Mello would be furious and isolated and miserable, after this. The blonde had already known that Matt had drawn too much suspicion to himself to be healthy, and now he knew that L's faith in his friend was nonexistent, but that was good. He would know that L would not—_could_ not—be counted on for emotional support. Matt, too, if L assumed his innocence, would be angry and bitter and even _more_ resentful than before, but again, there would be an understanding between them: L was not there to help.

And if Matt _wasn't_ innocent, then L would have to reassess his own morals. And, of course, he would have to deal with the fact that not only had he broken one child down into a murderer, but he had also turned another homeless child into an orphan. That would make three souls lost, then—and the fault would be his alone.

Sometimes L wondered if morality was truly helpful.

The program would be finished running in seven days. Seven days, and his judgement would be forced, a reluctant victory that would likely deliver pain and justice in equal parts.

Quilish Wammy's voice crackled over the intercom embedded in the ceiling. "L."

"Go away," L replied, not bothering with eloquence. "I am not inclined for philosophical discussion today, Wammy."

A pause.

"Answer me one question."

"Will you agree to turn off the feeds in this room afterwards?"

"Agreed, for the remainder of the day."

"Very well."

A hesitant lapse of silence, and then: "Why?"

Such a simple word, such a simple question, and yet L found himself rather irritated by it. "Elaborate."

The sound of the elderly man clearing his throat hissed over the loudspeaker in a rush of static. "Why do that to Mello? There was no need to—well, crush him, as it were."

"Of course there was a need," L replied mildly. "You should be aware of that, Quilish Wammy. The strong must be crushed to make them stronger still. How could one otherwise forge a sword?"

"Ah, the Sword of Justice aspires for a successor."

L snorted at the old joke and rolled his eyes upward toward the hidden camera. "Are you proud?"

"Undoubtedly." And then: "Are you?"

L didn't bat an eye, knowing full well that the disembodied voice was watching him throughout this exchange. "Of course."

"I wonder, sometimes."

"And I as well."

The intercom hissed again, and then there was silence.

L reached for his sweets.

--

---

--

Mello wondered what had just happened.

His ears were…ringing, and not with Andrew's sinister hissing, either. They were just…ringing. He couldn't hear for the high-pitched roar of nonexistent wind in his ears, couldn't think for the sharp whine of pressure behind his temples.

He felt…dazed. Dizzy. Vertigo, that was a word, wasn't it? Vertigo. That was what he felt.

There was a chasm yawning before him, and he had already leapt from the apex of the cliff. He had made the decision to jump the day he had let his guard slip in front of his new roommate—the first day of Puzzle Board. From there, it had almost been guaranteed. After all, didn't everyone eventually end up betraying him, in some form or another? Whether it was willful hate, envy, indifference, stupidity, or oversight, betrayal came in many forms, both intentional and accidental, but it didn't make any difference in the end.

The roaring in his ears increased in tempo, pulsing with a rhythm that ran perpendicular to the pounding of his blood. In tandem they created a strange tattoo of offbeat notes and asymmetry, and Mello found the black spots in his vision springing to existence in time with the peculiar song.

L, Matt, Andrew, Mihael, Leo—they were a meaningless jumble of names and un-words that tumbled and clattered around his head like a misplaced collection of oracle bones. He was Mello, now, Mello, nothing more, and yet all five of them formed a strange quintet of puppeteers, jerking his mental strings to and fro in a never-ending tug of war. He was tired of it all. It was about time that _Mello_ came into existence; it was about time that Mello—whoever he was going to be—took control of his life.

_Seven days._

Mihael had, once upon a time, when he was three and Andrew had yet to learn the meaning of jealousy, watched the news. And every time he had seen the face of a murderer, he had felt a twinge of childish pity—not for their victims, but for their friends, their acquaintances, their family, because what would it be like to know how much you _hadn't_ known, and to learn it too late?

L was so cold, but maybe that was his secret. Justice was blind, wasn't that how the saying went? If Justice could see, then she could be moved to compassion; if she could hear, she could be stirred to intervention. No, Justice _had _to be cold and impartial, because otherwise—where was objectivity? Mello had to admire L, in that strange and twisted way; he had to admire the brutal, cold strength that refused to relent.

_Objectivity should be your main goal, Mello._

It was the admonishing advice of someone long since used to dealing with emotion in the simplest way possible—ignoring it, burying it under layers upon layers of lies. It was a mask, an alias, and Mello had to wonder who_L_ was.

This was all just another twisted _game_.

Mello's feet took him back to their shared room, only to find it empty—how long had it been since he had actually been _alone_? Since Matt had caught him in that alley, the aloof gamer had always been with him. After the first brief gap, taken up by a battery of tests and a bewildering series of questions posed by a set of cold, calculating adults, he had been unceremoniously tossed, half-sedated and confused, into this very room, with a familiar, infuriating face idly examining him. After that, their schedules had been identical.

It felt…good to be alone.

Mello crossed the room and stood on his bed, facing the tiny window that Matt always_insisted_ he keep closed. It wasn't meant to be opened, anyway; it was more a way of knowing the time than anything else, because it forced their bodies to keep to Circadian rhythm.

His fingers curled around the tiny latch and popped the glass pane open. The cool almost-winter air rushed in, biting, snapping, jarringly fresh compared to the filtered air of the House.

Mello lifted his face to the fresh air, and _breathed_…

--

---

--

Roderick frowned.

He didn't like irritants.

The familiar pair of green, half-lidded eyes matched his gaze lazily. "May I return to my seat now, Professor?"

Roderick flashed Matt his best instructor's smile. "Of course, Matthais. It is…wonderful to have you back."

Condescension came so easily to his voice. Occasionally, Roderick allowed himself to wonder if acting would have been a better career choice. At the very least, he would have the freedom to change his occupation.

Wammy House was a tightly knit community, in the sense that leaving was unheard of.

Matt nodded to him and turned away, heading to the back of the room. "Matthais," Roderick called briskly, remembering. "Your seat has been filled, I'm afraid."

He had done that at L's request. It would have been a simple matter to have placed the newly promoted student—Ares—in ones of the empty seats on the other side of the room, but L had "suggested" that he shuffle the seating chart in such a way that Matt's old seat would be taken. And, as always, Roderick had complied—the current seating arrangement was completely different from the time prior to Leo's murder.

"You'll have to sit behind Linel," Roderick said. "Collin, move your books."

The boy who had been using the empty seat as storage space scowled and shifted his belongings so that Matt could sit. Linel half-turned in his seat, watching the play of events silently.

Linel, Roderick thought, summoning the memory of the boy's profile. Ah, yes. He was one of Acer's.

Well, L would be pleased by that accidental coincidence—if Mello hadn't become the new target, anyway.

"So, Matt," Roderick remarked casually, "whatever transpired that you have rejoined us without your foundling?"

Matt didn't look up. Having taken the previously empty seat, he was in the process of unpacking his textbooks from his bag. "Nothing that concerns you," he replied blandly, adding a belated "_sir,_" to the end of his statement after a moment's thought.

Roderick raised an eyebrow. "Really, now? Nothing that concerns your class, either?"

Ah, this was an old game, and an amusing one—for Roderick, at least. Still, he would have to tread carefully. Roderick wasn't quite sure if the rules had changed—after all, Matt was no longer L's chosen, so there really wasn't any point in singling him out. On the other hand, L changed his own standards constantly, so nothing was concrete.

Matt met his gaze indolently. "And why would any activities of mine concern my class?"

He hadn't even bothered with the respectful "sir." Roderick allowed himself a small smile. "Well, I'm sure that the rest of them are interested, don't you think? Mello _is_ in second place, and you are—third place, is that correct? The doings of the leaders_always_ concern the majority, because it is the majority's goal to defeat the leaders. After all, Mello managed to make the climb. I'm sure someone else has the ability to sweep through the rankings—though they would have to beat you first, would they not?"

Matt's gaze turned brittle. "I would like to see the notes I missed whilst I was following L's personal instructions…_sir_."

Matt understood, then, what Roderick had done. The professor had, in one neat stroke, set him up to be taken down. He had also identified Mello, the new boy, as a target, but that was less immediate, and not of Matt's concern.

Linel's face was as bland as ever, but Roderick was no fool. Acer would hear of his challenge before the day was out.

He hoped that L would be satisfied, because hell, it was the most entertainment Roderick expected to get while he was still caged in this factory of a school, and it would be such a pity to stop it now.

--

---

--

"Roderick," L murmured. "Read me his profile, please."

Wammy nodded. "Yes, L. He is an adequate teacher, skilled at all levels of mathematics, though he lacks the ambition to pursue modern problems on his own. He has been in your employ for the past thirteen years—"

"Wammy, I was not involved in hiring _anyone_ thirteen years ago."

"So noted. My employ, then, if you wish to be specific. He is noted for being callous, uncompassionate, and generally willing to manipulate Wammy House children into the emotional mold that we deem most beneficial."

"And these are good points?"

"L, I could point out that you yourself have endorsed my policies."

"Forgive me," L replying, swallowing his current mouthful of chocolate. "Continue."

"There's not a great deal else, really." Wammy scrolled through the screen on his PDA and glanced up. "He's been a useful employee, but little else."

"Yes. I figured you would say as much." L reached for one of his chocolate truffles. They were in his private office, and the main monitor was displaying the live security feed from Roderick's classroom. "I do not, however, appreciate him taking this initiative."

"L, his orders have not changed since you—"

"Change them, then," L cut in. "There is no more need for Roderick to instigate trouble."

A thin smile played on Wammy's lips. "Yes, L."

"Wammy."

"Yes?"

"I do not appreciate your amusement."

Wammy's smile grew still further. "Yes, L."

He left. L sighed and reached for another truffle, contemplating the monitor in front of him.

It was going to be a long seven days.

--

---

--

Near had received L's message.

The messenger alert in Raven had interrupted his programming. He had been mildly surprised, and more than a little irritated at being distracted, but then L's name had flashed over his screen.

Near read the message quickly. It was not in L's nature to be verbose, and he memorized it before Raven's security system sent the data spiraling into the nothingness of deletion.

So, then. Near wished that he had thought of modifying his program like that, but to scan every security feed in the entire school—the processing power required was simply phenomenal, and all he had was one laptop. L, of course, would be well accustomed to having the powers of distributed computing at his fingertips. Come to think of it, seven days seemed like a long time, if one considered L's massive network. Surely there was spare computing power _somewhere_ that he could use—

Unless, of course, he didn't want to publicize the fact that a murder had occurred at one of Wammy's elite universities, and that the great detective L was investigating such a low-profile case. L was smarter than that; he could not afford to be linked in any way, shape, or form to Quilish Wammy.

Near closed Raven and shut down his laptop. Logic, rather than hard evidence hunting, would serve him better now that the final conclusion was drawing near.

Seven days—it seemed absurd, really, to think that this case could be solved in such a short window. Near found it rather…anticlimactic. Wasn't this supposed to be a challenge?

He was mildly disappointed, but L's justice would be served, and the turmoil would finally die down. Near was not enjoying this latest disruption to his life, even if it meant that Matt…

If this had accomplished one thing, it was that Matt and Mello would never be as close as they could have been. The shadow of past doubts would forever be hovering over their shoulders, a wall between that could be breached with time, but never completely removed.

Near's lips quirked. Perhaps this was not a complete loss on his part after all.

--

---

--

Mello paced the halls of Wammy, alone.

He hadn't had a chance to explore the orphanage before, but apparently there wasn't much to see. It was just—white, endless white, a parade of blank hallways and sterile rooms. The student rooms were all locked behind identical, cookie-cutter doors, and the library that had been their main residence for the past month seemed to be a rare exception. Rooms with color, with life, with any _value_—they didn't exist, as far as Mello could see, or they were kept behind locked doors, like the few teachers' rooms he had broken into. He had to wonder—what was the point of keeping these kids locked inside blank cages, keeping them isolated, barring any and all expressions of personality? It was a factory, and little else.

Walking past the classrooms as an eavesdropping outsider, all that struck Mello was the immense _silence_. Even when he had taught himself out of the hand-me-down textbooks, learning had been…fun. It had been an escape. For these kids, it looked like classes were just another battle.

Mello continued to walk, and with every step he disassociated from the orphanage a little more.

He felt cut off, true, but not inept. His isolation was imposed by outside forces, and he_knew_ that it was…wrong. For these—creatures, isolation was the norm.

It was an odd observation.

He had embarked on this walk with the intent of—understanding. He wanted to see Wammy House for the first time.

Mello's life had been fairly bleak, but he at least knew what it was _supposed _to be. Better to chase after a dream than to return to the nightmares.

Mello turned another corner and nearly stumbled over his own feet as he dodged around an obstruction lying prone in the hallway.

The boy looked up at him dazedly. Blood trailed down one side of his face, obscuring features that were only vaguely familiar. Mello stopped and met his gaze. "Hey," he said. "Are you okay?"

The boy tried to shrug, then winced. "I've had worse," he replied. He held out a hand. "Can you help me get out of here?"

Mello felt his breathing hitch at the bitter scent of congealing blood rising from the boy. How easy would it be to walk by, to ignore this kid just like all of _them_?

Mello was _not_ a Wammy House child.

"Yeah," he said, grabbing the outstretched hand. "Sure—"

He bit his tongue as the boy pulled himself to his feet based on Mello's support alone, nearly knocking the slight blonde off his feet from the force of the weight. "Jeez," Mello wheezed. "Can you walk?"

The pressure on his arm suddenly twisted from a friendly need for support to a hostile hold. "Yeah," the boy said, "I can." His free hand materialized in front of Mello's face, along with a silver spray can, and Mello felt a thrill race down his spine.

Oh, _fuck_.

He didn't have any time to respond. The boy depressed the nozzle, and Mello choked; fire raced up his nose, clogging, scratching, stifling…

"Hey," the boy mused aloud, "he was right. This _was_ easy."

A solid fist connected with the side of his head, and Mello saw black.

* * *

**--**

**--- **

**AN:** Well, the filler ends here, folks. The ending is a minor cliffy. Originally I was going to put that bit into the next chapter, but it would just be so _awkward_ and non-suspenseful. Sigh. It also seems a bit random, I know. But anyhow--

Reviewers, as always, receive my undying love. We had an excellent turnout for Chapter 13, actually, and 14 didn't do too shabbily either.Which makes me feel guilty, because, well, I haven't had time to reply to any of Chap14 reviews thus far. Never fear! Once I get home from the Academic Team competition today and reset my brain I'll try to get through them. Hee. You lot keep me working.

Thoughts are muchly appreciated--particularly on my characterization. Like I said earlier, juggling this many personas, in addition to my original-fiction story concept (that's been floating around my head for a week or so, but I don't know if it's ever going to happen, so no more shall be said), there are too many fictional characters yakking about inside my skull. Gack. XD Oh, the things fanfiction does to one's brain.

Hey! I've started a C2 community with the presumptuous name "Extraordinary Death Note Fanfiction." The link can be found in my author's profile. Yeah. Anyway, it's essentially my attempt to mimic a (now-abandoned) concept I saw in a Hellsing C2. I'm just trying to gather a bunch of fanfics together that have literary merit. I need suggestions. :) No offense meant if I don't pick something you suggest; I may simply be trying to even the distribution of the archive, or it might just not be to my tastes. Anyways. Send me a PM if you've got any suggestions/questions/what have you.

Ack, I've got to go. School calls!

Fly

March 7th, 2008. 6:54 AM


	16. Tar

**AN:** An apology for my delay. It's here, finally. I hope it's up to par.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

Mello woke up to a bitter taste on his tongue. He fought the urge to cough, instead forcing himself to swallow. The acrid taste remained, and the gears of his brain slowly shifted into place. The taste meant that he had been out for some time, but _why_, and _where_— 

That _boy_.

Mello reached up to probe his aching skull, but his wrists caught together and rubbed against the coarse grain of rope. Wonderful—his hands were tied, most likely to a chair, by the feel of it. It wasn't as if he needed to touch the throbbing lump on his head to know it existed, anyway; it pulsed with the beat of his blood, a mute testament to his attacker's handiwork.

He couldn't see anything. It was dark—completely dark, the purple-and-green grain that always seemed to accompany a lack of light. He blinked experimentally. There was no difference, except for a light brushing against his eyelashes. A blindfold, then, and to top it all off, he was in a dark room.

Well, _great._

"Oi, he's awake."

Mello recognized the voice, though he couldn't quite place it. Most likely, it was some kid from one of his classes; he had never paid them enough attention…

"About time." That voice he didn't recognize. It was the long, slow drawl of an older boy, completely unfamiliar, with a strange, almost metallic overtone. Mello flexed his fingers. The knots holding his wrists _felt_ strong, but that wasn't a guarantee. If he could get out…

It would be best to wait on that, though. The two voices were close, probably from across the room, but there could be more of them lurking behind him. Mello's brain had been jumpstarted into defensive mode, now; he was focusing on staying alive, nothing more. This didn't make sense. Wouldn't it have been ridiculously more practical to have just killed him while he was unconscious? And why go to the trouble of keeping his hearing intact?

"Hey, Mello, how's it going?" The drawling boy, the older one, was speaking, though his voice sounded hollow—a voice-alteration scheme, maybe? "Sorry about this, y'know, but Near's kind of off-limits. I'm not too worried about him, anyways. We know a lad who was on good terms with the little freak, once."

Mello wasn't listening to the words. There was danger here—real danger, tangible danger, the kind of danger that Mello hadn't experienced in too long. It sent a thrill shivering down his spine, and it set his mind roaring with alarm signals. This was _bad._

Mello forced his face into the all-too-familiar blank mask of attentiveness, and the clamoring of his alarmed mind quieted, if only for a moment.

"Anyhow," the Drawler (as Mello mentally dubbed him) continued, "I figured we might as well ask you some questions, right? The kid who knocked you out—Ringer, he was—is already gone, so don't think about tattling off. He'd been planning on cutting loose for a while now, since his cousin on the outside came of age to legally take care of him. As for us, well, we've got our own arses covered. Best off, we've got a runt who can ghost the cameras for us. So, all in all, nothing wrong with answering our questions, right? You're not going to lose anything."

Mello kept his silence, even as his brain scrambled for answers that were not forthcoming.

"He's gonna be stubborn, you know," the first boy said, and Mello could almost hear the grin in the older boy's reply.

"Not a problem," Drawler said cheerily. "I'm just looking for a bit of fun, anyway. I suppose we may as well begin." He paused, and Mello heard it—a strange electric hum coming from the direction of Drawler's voice. His mind dimly began picking the noise apart, searching through its mental catalog of memories. The Drawler seemed unfazed. "First of all," the boy said, "how far have you gotten?"

"I don't know what you mean," Mello returned, keeping his voice as flat as possible. There was a static crackle that Mello eventually recognized as a chuckle, and his mind finally supplied a belated explanation—the Drawler wasn't in the room. He was using a speaker setup in some other room. The electric hum had been nothing more than the faint feedback of a microphone.

Which left him alone in this room with the smaller boy. Good.

"The murder case," Drawler said impatiently. "Leo, the fallen lion. Ring any bells?"

"Oh. That." Mello did his best to keep his voice light as he fingered the knots on his wrists again. He almost had enough leeway; all he needed was an excuse to squirm a bit…

Slowly, slowly, his pulse still hammering through his veins, Mello forced himself to relax. He knew this game…

"Don't you think it's a bit stupid of you to be doing this?" he inquired politely. "I mean, come on—kidnapping isn't exactly a minor infringement, and it also reeks of melodrama. I'm afraid that you're not making any sense."

Thin ice, but worth the treading; obviously, the Drawler wasn't intelligent by any stretch of the imagination. It would have been so much easier for him if he had just out and killed Mello, too…

Mello realized what he was contemplating, and he choked back a laugh.

"Oh, I think I make fine sense," Drawler replied, just as cheerful. "Matt knows this game as well as I do. It gives him a marvelous opportunity, don't you think?"

"Whatever aerosol you pulled earlier must have damaged a few of my brain cells," Mello returned, feeling his blood surge in tempo. _Not Matt, not again—why does this keep happening?_ "Please—do explain. I wasn't aware that Matt was involved in this at all."

"Isn't it simple? I'm doing this as a favor to Matt."

Mello felt a muscle in his face twitch. "What are you insinuating?" Oh, the ice under his feet was so very fragile, here, and he didn't know how far he could press before he found himself plunged headlong into the turbulent waters below, but still—he _had _to push this.

"Oh, nothing, really. I've owed Matt sommat for a while now, y'know? Consider this repayment of my debts. But, hey, that's not what I wanted to ask you. Shall we get back to business?"

Mello forced his face to freeze into placid rigidity. This was no time to be doubting Matt…

How the _hell_ did this freak know that Matt was under suspicion?

Mello flashed his best chocolate-stained grin at his unseen opponent. "Sounds good," he said lightly. "Though I still don't see what you're getting out of this. What do I know that you don't?" It was so ridiculously easy to feign nonchalance, but he probably didn't make a convincing picture, with rope twining around his arms and the scratchy cloth of the blindfold against his eyes.

"Sorry," Drawler said, sickly insincerity coating his voice, "but I don't think I feel like telling you that. You understand."

"Yeah, sure."

This was a riddle, but he didn't have time to ponder the older boy's obviously fault logic.

The questions began, and Mello immersed himself in the persona of Mihael Keehl, a small, weak little kid who knew nothing about his situation except for two facts. First, he was the disadvantaged party, and second, he was facing an opponent who—for whatever reason—had decided to indulge in a little game of cat and mouse.

Mello didn't know who the hell this kid was, or what he thought goddamn _questions_ were going to do for him, but he did know that the instant he worked his hands free, that little runt on the other side of the room was dead. Matters of ethics, his captor's reasoning, and Matt's potential involvement were shunted to the side in favor of _survival_. Mihael was very good at surviving the cat-and-mouse entertainment of tormentors.

He would play this game just like he had played Andrew's—by the rules, until the end, and then he would be _gone_.

--

---

--

Matt tipped his books into his bag and darted out the door the moment the bell rang. Roderick's eyes followed his back, watching. Poor, poor little Matthais…

He waited until the last straggler limped out of his room before locking the door with his remote and opening the feeds on his computer. Roderick didn't bother circumventing Raven this time, instead opting to use his teacher's code to access the feeds. L would have his activities on record, but that was fine; L knew everything that went on in this building, anyway.

His program automatically identified unusual clusters of students. Sure enough, there was a gathering forming outside the door to the library. Roderick smiled. Poor, foolish Matt—he was the only one with the ability to get into the library, true, but everyone knew it was the gamer's main haunt. Loitering in front of the door didn't require any fancy gadgetry.

Roderick settled back and waited.

--

---

--

Matt kept his head down as he walked—strode, really, because he was moving _fast_. It wouldn't do to be caught out in the open, not today, not with the notable lack of Mello by his side and Roderick's challenge to the class ringing in his ears.

He wondered what Mello was up to—not that it mattered, of course. How long did he have until one of them unearthed the truth? Near was worse than a pig, but he was more than capable. L himself was…well, _L_, and he had proven himself to the world many times over. And then, of course, there was Mello, with his volatile moods and one-dimensioned approaches—Mello, whose peculiar perspective was so very different from that of a Wammy Kid. That made three investigators, working separately but in tandem, and one of them was bound to stumble across a clue soon enough. Near had already figured out that Matt had ghosted the feeds, hadn't he?

Matt had more than enough to deal with in his immediate world without the looming thought of the investigation hovering over his shoulder.

Bloody _Leo_.

I, thought Matt, am an idiot.

He realized his mistake abruptly. He had been walking back towards the room—_their_ room, the room he shared with Mello. That was unbelievably _stupid_. Why on earth would he want to go there?

Old habits died hard.

Matt turned around. The library, then. He had taken his spare keypad decoder with him to class. With any luck, Mello wouldn't have the gall to touch his gadgetry, much less steal a piece of it and _use_ it, so he would have the library to himself.

Matt hoped as much, anyway. He had had enough trouble ditching the stupid chaperones they had been assigned. Brian was just as insufferable as ever, and his pompous aura did nothing for Matt's mood. It would be rotten if he had to go back to the room to do his work, thus falling back into the custody of that sorry excuse for a human. Worse still would be if he went back to the room, only to run into any of the other students who had ditched their chaperones.

The chaperones were meant to be their protection against the _murderer._ What a laugh.

His newfound ranking as a third-place also-ran had completely vanished from his mind in wake of the whole debacle with Leo's murder—which he was going to_block out and not think about, damn it_—but now that he was on his own, without Mello around…

It wouldn't have mattered before, anyway. Those who rode alongside the chosen few were safe, so long as their 'friends' cared enough to declare their protection. It happened, though rarely, particularly with Near being as distant as he was. Matt and Mello had been perceived as a pair by the social structure of Wammy—they were always together, and thus, Mello's protected status had been Matt's to share.

He was on his own now. Roderick hadn't helped matters, but the other kids—Linel in particular—would have immediately noticed that Matt had returned to classes alone. That marked him as far game, but he was damned if he was going to let them get him this soon.

Matt turned the corner to go into the library and came up against a wall of human flesh.

Oh, _shit_. So much for that.

--

---

--

"Answer me."

Silence.

The boy's sigh rushed through the speakers with a crackle of static. "It's a simple question, Mello."

Mello shrugged awkwardly, his shoulders hampered by rope. "Sorry," he said brightly. "I suppose I just don't feel talkative today." He was getting tired of this, and the looming threat of bodily harm hadn't vanished any more than the younger boy's presence had. "Can we get past the boring stuff?"

"You're a terrible liar," Drawler's disembodied voice retorted. "It's not a hard question. When did you first begin to suspect Matt?"

_Never._

_Always._

Mello offered the darkness a lopsided grin. "Sorry," he said again. "I haven't got an answer for you."

"That's not good enough."

Mello heard a quiet rustle in the darkness.

"And, anyway, I'm getting bored."

--

---

--

Eight boys. Four were tall, wiry; the other four were heavyset and brawny. Obviously, they were hand-selected just for this. He recognized Martin's face in the mix. They were Acer's, then. Word spread fast.

Matt ran a few algorithms in his head before giving up. There was a _very_ high percentage that he was going to come out of this with at least one broken bone, possibly several, depending on what exactly Acer planned to accomplish.

Matt swallowed the dry taste in his mouth and grinned as best he could. Bravado first, then a quick retreat—thus the fox might live another day.

"Hey," he said, nonchalantly. "What's everyone here for?"

Martin's eyes glowed amber in the bright light of the hallway. "Oh, naught, really," he said casually, acting as speaker for the assembled octet. "Acer just wanted to extend his greetings to you now that you've returned."

_Returned_. Obviously, the careful words were Acer's—straight from the adder's mouth, as it were. How far was he supposed to read into that? Was Acer referencing a return to class, a return to normalcy, a return to living life under the shadow of the packs…? Matt kept his grin, even though he knew his eyes weren't backing it up. "Well. I'm quite honored."

Martin smiled thinly, and Matt caught a sliver of crimson resentment glittering in the amber of his eyes. Matt rose onto the balls of his feet carefully, making ready to run—just in case, of course.

Martin's smile remained stamped on his face. "Acer will be glad to hear that," he said dutifully. "In fact, he wished to make you an offer. Want to go on a run with us?"

A run.

A bloody _run_.

What game was Acer playing?

"Let me get this straight," Matt said. "I mean—Acer's offering me a chance to_ join_—"

"Not unconditional, of course," Martin returned coolly. "It's at his discretion, ultimately, but we were planning on a recruiting round tonight, if you wanted to join us."

So that was it. A _run_—outwardly, at least, it was a symbolic move. If Matt could betray his own kind (the victims) and bully the new kids with Acer's best pack runners, then he would be…in. But what did that_ mean_? Ostentatiously, it meant protection, even if Acer shoved him around a bit; in reality, it would be a sort of defeat, but when all was said and done…

What the hell did Acer get out of this?

Matt tilted his head to the side and smiled as best he knew how. "Well," he said, practically purring from all of the sickly-sweet sincerity ladled onto his words, "I'm intrigued. Do you think I could speak with Acer himself?"

Martin hesitated visibly. "I—yeah. I don't see why not." He smiled at Matt, and the gamer matched him inch for inch of grinning insincerity. "Why don't you come to the spare classroom on D Wing later tonight—say, right after dinner?"

Neutral ground—a smart choice on Martin's part. D Wing was where most of the teachers had their offices; nothing too serious could happen there. Matt nodded. "Sounds good to me."

"It's settled, then," Martin said, and as one, the eight boys melted around Matt and dispersed into the hallways.

Matt watched the retreating backs and felt bile rising in his throat.

Well, his algorithms had been wrong. It looked like he had actually gotten off without a scratch.

Matt locked himself in the library and propped one of the computer chairs under the handle to prevent it from opening. It never hurt to be safe.

--

---

--

Near tossed the die in his hand.

Up, down.

Up, down.

Up, down.

Up—

It fell, and clattered to the floor.

He frowned and picked it up. Two dots stared back at him. He had always approved of the symmetry of the die's faces. Two dots, each at opposite corners, almost as if they were straining to get as far from each other as possible, just to preserve the balance…

Near placed the die carefully on the side of his desk, still leaving the two dots face-up, and tapped a few keys on his laptop. The window he had been working in vanished, replaced by a screen on one of L's computers. Near had been hoping to hack into L's system and see exactly how much longer it would take the program to run, but it was mostly sealed to his admittedly amateur skills. Near was good at computers, but 'good' didn't count for too much; he had managed to unearth Matt's ghosting technique based almost solely on previous observation.

_Matt_ had probably already hacked into L's system.

Once upon a time, Wammy students had been assigned rooms based on the rankings. This method worked well and fine amongst the lower tier, but at Near's level, it had meant squashing a dozen or so bitter rivals into one tiny stretch of hallway. Near had not appreciated the setup, but he hadn't worried too much; unlike Matt, first place had always seemed like an easy position to maintain. He was untouchable. Roommates came and went—they tended to shift; after all, the most accomplished were often close to graduating. The affairs of the other students took place in another universe entirely. They were concerned with competitions and struggles and petty displays of superiority. Near tackled riddles simply for the thrill of _solving_.

And then little Matthais had stunned everyone and surged to second place. Near had been prepared to dismiss him like all the rest—until he saw the bruises spreading across his face on the first night Matt had moved into his room, and Near had realized abruptly that every one of the top students ran a pack, save himself and Matt.

Near liked riddles—and, to his surprise, so did this newcomer.

Back in the present, Near decided that this riddle, to his chagrin, was _not_ entertaining in the least.

L's system beeped tauntingly at him as it killed off another one of his programs and kicked him back onto his own desktop. It would have been easier to just _ask_ L—he would have answered—but Near did know something about pride.

This wasn't going to work. He really should have been doing something productive.

His fingers hovered hesitantly over the keyboard for a few moments before pulling of the mosaic-style display of all the video feeds in Wammy. He cut out a few—the teachers were of no concern to him—and turned on the speakers to his laptop. Immediately, the roar of noise assaulted his ears. Near grimaced and closed his eyes, feeling his way blindly through the sound of a hundred equally loud conversations.

He immersed himself in the noise, dove into it headfirst, and spun the discordant chaos slowly through his mind until it began to separate into distinct patterns. His mind had capacity to spare; following multiple threads of thought was simple, so long as he made sure to concentrate on all of them and none of them at once.

_So, anyway, the test on Friday is looking grim. I figured that if we—_

—_luck hacking Roderick's files? Damn, I was hoping that—_

—_opening soon. I hear they're going to use it to scout out our strengths. We should practice—_

_Do you think he'll say yes? I really hope so—_

—_No guarantees, naturally, but it's looking good. I figure that Mello should crack soon._

Near's mind latched onto that name, that key, and followed it, keeping the rest of the feeds running in the background. _Yes_…

—_don't know. Can we trust him?_

_Look, it's just suggestion. How hard can it be?_

_We don't want him going crazy. Does he have something personal against the kid?  
_

_Not important. __He's insane. You already knew that._

_Whatever. I don't bloody care anymore. Just make sure that Mello doesn't figure out who it is keeping him, okay?_

Keeping—

Near's fingers flew across the keyboard, selecting the feed, telling his program to record it, even as he directed the display to show all of Mello's ordinary hideouts. His room was empty; the kitchen was busy with dinner preparations; the janitor's closet was as dark as ever; the library cameras showed Matt, but not Mello…

Near opened Raven's messenger program, selected L's name from the list, and began typing, even as the conversations of Wammy House spiraled around him, pouring out of the speakers in a haze of nonsensical sound.

--

---

--

Matt's fingers trailed idly over the Puzzle Board, staring blankly at the final setup. _Checkmate._

He had won.

Again.

He really needed some new mental stimulation.

Rumor had it that Wammy was currently working on a gaming room that would be designed with fair competition in mind. Rumor had it that the games would be designed by Wammy himself, and would span the whole spectrum—logic games, action games, riddles, puzzles, extended adventure sequences…

In other words, the end goal would be to provide yet another (hopefully safe) field in which they could all compete, while the adults collected psychoanalytic data on all of them. Matt knew well enough that any game designed by Wammy would be open-ended; their own actions would reflect not just strategic choice, but also _personal_ choice, personal preference, like some sort of demented choose-your-own adventure novel.

He didn't need that. It would keep him entertained for a few weeks, possibly longer, and then he would get bored.

Matt _was_ bored, and at the same time, his brain was far too cluttered. He wanted to be entertained, to actually have a chance to exercise his thought processes, but at the same time, all he wanted was to shut down all the complexities of reality and decision and immerse himself in something utterly mindless.

Matt sighed.

The door to the library opened, and Matt spun around, expecting Mello, expecting a fight.

"How did _you_ get here?"

Near shut the door behind him quietly and walked over to the Puzzle Board, a folder clutched in one of his hands. "Sorry. L gave us the codes to the rooms along with the access information for Raven, in the beginning. And that chair you jammed under the knob was in the wrong position."

Matt swallowed his surprise, sinking reluctantly behind his old mask of irritability. "You of all people shouldn't be apologizing," Matt snapped, though they could both hear the absence of real malice in his voice. He had just wanted to be left _alone_. "It doesn't suit you." He scowled. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Near ran a thumb along the edge of the folder.

"I've got a puzzle for you."

Near's mouth curled upwards at the corners in the barest suggestion of a smile, but his eyes remained flat and distant. Matt felt the same old thrill race down his spine—he needed the distraction, and Near had a knack for finding difficult riddles—but he stayed in character. "Isn't this an odd time to be concerned about puzzles? I thought you were on the investigations team."

Near was not fazed by the implied accusation. "None of us are really needed, to be honest," he returned. "L has this matter nearly resolved." He held out the folder. "Nevertheless, this _is_ a puzzle, and I believe you would do well to solve it, as you are remotely concerned."

Matt's fingers rested on the folder gingerly. "Concerned?"

"It's not a cipher or a logic riddle, Matt."

_Damn_.

Matt took the folder and opened it to find a set of printouts. "What is this?"

"Read."

Matt read.

_"—No guarantees, naturally, but it's looking good. I figure that Mello should crack soon."_

Near watched his reaction carefully as the redhead skimmed over the content of the pages briskly. "Have you seen Mello today, Matt?"

Matt chewed on his lip for a moment, then shook his head. "Not in—well, not since the very morning. L sent me back to classes."

Near nodded. "And do you know what they're talking about?"

"No."

Such a simple statement, a simple question, but Near's clear gaze told Matt exactly what he thought of that assertion.

"Matt."

Matt met Near's gaze and Near's challenge in the same instant. "'To the victor go the spoils, the most notable being the power to rewrite history.' Does it even _matter_ if I'm actually lying?"

The quote did not faze Near. "You've resorted to stealing my words again instead of concocting your own."

"Of course. You are a bleeding hypocrite, after all."

"I said that under completely different circumstances. I believe we were discussing Christianity and the Inquisition."

"We don't have time for this, Near."

Near cocked his head to the side. "I suppose we don't."

"We _need_ to find him, by the sound of this printout." Matt took a deep breath, then continued. "Do you have any leads?"

"None at the moment, but L might. I told him."

"Good." Matt raked a hand through his hair. "Have you checked the feeds?"

Near nodded. "I didn't hear him, nor was he in any of your usual places, so—"

They left the library, still keeping a cool distance between them as they debated what course of action to take. Near was once again reminded of the two opposing dots on his die, reluctantly bound to a single face but keeping as far from each other as the maker allowed, thus maintaining the balance.

--

---

**--**

Mello was having flashbacks, but he wasn't about to tell _them_.

"Come on, Mello. Give me _something_ to work with. You're being terribly boring."

_Come on, Mihael. What was Mummy's little angel up to today? I'll bet it was ever so _boring_ for an angel like yourself, but_…

"Shut up," he rasped into the darkness, his voice hoarse. The Drawler laughed again, and Mello heard the hiss of static.

"Don't be silly. What's the point of keeping you here if you're going to just sit and be quiet the whole time?"

What _was _the point? Mello didn't understand, couldn't understand, and it just_ didn't make sense _in the first place. Having a nice, benign little _chat_ was just too simple a motive for knocking him over the head and keeping him captive like this. He was missing something, but what?

_Poor little archangel can't flap his wings and fly away, can he? We'll have loads of fun tonight, I promise, and Mummy's dead drunk again. She's going to die of liver poisoning one day, you know, and I might even be eighteen by then! Won't that be lovely, Mihael, just the two of us?_

Mihael had heard that threat, and had wondered—what would happen if Andrew actually murdered their mother?

Not that he wouldn't be caught, but still. It was an intriguing question.

Mello couldn't catch Leo's murderer, though, or at least, not easily. Leo had been essentially beaten to death, but the kid took so many beatings every day—how did one determine who had landed the final blow?

L and Near would be the ones to finish the case, not him, not Matt, so why did Drawler care about getting Mello to talk?

"You're not planning on talking to me, are you?"

Mello cracked a wry grin, though he knew his show of bravado was probably shot to hell by now. "Nope."

Drawler sighed into the microphone. "Well, g'night, then."

Wait.

"What?"

He couldn't suppress the incredulous protest that sprang from his throat. Drawler laughed. "What, what? Isn't it a simple concept? I've got a life, you know, Mello. I'm leaving, and we're gonna switch out the kid who's keeping watch on you later. You're stuck here, I'm afraid. Oh—and I took a peek in your file. I hope you don't mind the soundtrack we've selected for the night."

There was a click, and then Mello heard it:

Bells.

Or, to be precise, a single bell, tolling, and _damn_, how on earth did they match the pitch of the bells back home?

"Two, three…"

The numbers crept to his lips, silently, and he mouthed the numbers rather than allowing this disgusting form of humiliation. Stupid, all of it, so very _stupid_…

"Five, seven, eleven, thirteen…"

Mello was no fool; he _knew_ that they could probably see him mouthing the primes, but still. He couldn't—

"Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-one…"

_"Mihael, I'm home!"_

_Mihael was studiously staring into his cup of milk, his textbooks hidden safely under his bed. "Oh. Hey."_

_Andrew rounded the corner and dropped his bag against the wall. "Hey, what a surprise. Archangel Mihael is slacking in his studies."_

_Mihael offered his older brother a weak smile, hating himself for it all the while. "Yeah. Mom said I wasn't going fast enough."_

_It was a lie, but it would buy him time; that was all that mattered, wasn't it?_

"Thirty-seven, forty-one, forty-three, forty-seven…"

_"I don't believe you."_

_Or maybe it wouldn't buy him time after all. Mihael swallowed and looked up. "Really. I didn't get much done today."_

_The blow came before he had time to react. The glass shattered under him as he tried to catch himself, sending shards of stinging fire plunging into his skin. Andrew hauled him up by his shirt collar and tossed him to the ground. "Go away."_

"Fifty-three, fifty-nine, sixty-one, sixty-seven…"

_Mihael scrambled to his feet, running to the bathroom. Behind him, he heard Andrew mopping up the spill, no doubt making sure that if their mother noticed the streaks of blood, she would simply assume that it was the fashionable affliction of the day: masochism…_

_The tweezers stung as he pried the glass out of his skin, and Mihael cursed himself for choosing such a stupid prop. He should have known by now…_

_And then later, at night, Andrew was in the doorway again, and as Mihael watched, his older brother reached under the bed and pulled out the textbooks._

"_You lied," he said, matter-of-factly, and Mihael shrugged._

"_Of course."_

The bells kept ringing. Mello drowned in the numbers, until the line between memory and modernity blurred and all he could see was the endless parade of primes dancing on his tongue.

He forgot that he wasn't supposed to be saying them out loud, and Mihael screamed.

_Seventy-one, seventy-nine, eighty-three…_

_"I'll remember. I promise."_

_--_

_---_

_--_

* * *

**AN:** Well. I hope this was decent. Many thanks to my steadfast readers; once again, it has taken me a touch longer than a week to update, but I hope it was worth it. This chapter topped out just barely over 5,000 words before the AN's. I'll admit that most of it was written today; various forms of procrastination have taken over my life. Super Smash Brothers comes to mind... 

At any rate, any and all thoughts are welcome, and I love reviews. I would also like to ask for a bit of help polishing the summary for this story--I know it's not finished, yet, but I don't like the current text. I'm bad at summarizing. Being verbose is just in my nature...

I will reply to everyone from the last chapter soon. I promise!

Fly

March 16th, 2008. 1:55 PM


	17. Deliberation

L rolled his tongue around his thumb pensively

Near and Matt sat silently as L paged through the folder Near had brought him. Matt had grasped Near's reasoning immediately—it would have been impossible for the two of them to search the entire school for Mello on their own. L was the only one with the resources to begin a search—and he was the only one who had the reason to. It made perfect, logical sense for the three of them to work together.

Matt didn't much care for logic at the moment.

L looked up at them after a brief lull. "This is quite the problem you've presented me with, Near."

Near didn't smile. "It's not of my devising."

L inclined his head. "I never said it was." He sighed and flipped through the papers. "Where's the video output?"

"Unimportant," Near said. "It was completely dark." Matt remembered Near showing him the blank feeds: file after file of nothing but transmission errors and darkened screens. It had been too much to hope for, really—why would the speakers have allowed themselves to be caught on camera?

"Completely?"

Matt spoke up. "I took a quick look at it. It looks like they just cut some wires in the camera itself instead of bothering with the software side." Come to think of it, why had the speakers allowed their _voices_ to be captured?

Matt smelled something distinctly malodorous.

L frowned. "Which camera was it?"

"Camera 31q," Near said. "It's a bathroom. They were just talking, apparently—and the surrounding corridor was also cut, so it's impossible to say who the speakers are."

"I would expect as much." L withdrew his thumb from his mouth. "Obviously, Mello's disappearance was planned. We should begin searching immediately."

"About time," Matt snapped, then bit his tongue. He ran a finger along the armrests of the chair and scowled. He was growing far too used to being in L's office. Previously, it had been rare indeed for the detective to even return to Wammy House, much less summon his successors-in-training. It seemed that, ever since L had returned _this_ time, Matt's life had slowly come to revolve around the sparse room.

It was an unsettling revelation.

A light flashed on the desk and L's eyes darted towards it warily. Matt blinked. "What—"

The detective shook his head and flicked a switch beside it. "Come in."

The door opened and Wammy strode in. Matt spun around in his chair to get a better look; Near remained unmoving, his knees curled to his chest. Wammy had eyes for only one person. "L. Ringer is missing." 

L hissed and rose to his feet. "Who?" His hands remained on the desk, supporting his weight as he leaned forward. "Tell me."

Watari raised his hands. "We're still gathering information, L. I'm sorry. Ringer was one of the lower-ranked students. His roommate saw him leave, supposedly to get something he left in his classroom, and that's the last we know. I've checked the backup circuits—someone ghosted him away. I have a modified version of Near's program running as we speak."

Matt and Near glanced at each other involuntarily at the mention of the program. "Near's program—" Matt began, uncertain. Wammy cast him a dismissive glance, then nodded.

"It appears that your method of ghosting was used, Matt," he replied, his voice clipped. "We have managed to reveal two feeds thus far using Near's program. In one of those, he is headed towards the front of the building; in the second, he runs into Acer, and then they both disappear, though Acer shows up later elsewhere. As soon as the program concludes, we will know what exactly happened to Ringer."

L nodded. "And how long will that take…?"

"Not too long, hopefully. An hour at most, assuming that he moves along a straight path. We haven't had time to refine Near's programming."

Matt shot Near a vaguely accusatory glance. "What kind of program did you write, exactly?"

"Oh." Near blinked at him. "I managed to decode your ghosting mechanism. L has the program."

"Oh," Matt echoed.

_Fuck_.

"In any event, this changes matters," L murmured. "So. From the feed Near found, we know that Mello is in no immediate danger, correct?"

Matt frowned. "But they said—"

"It sounds as if they mean to break him psychologically," L continued, ignoring Matt's voice. "This is certainly _not_ a desirable outcome; however, I believe Mello has…experience…in that field, correct?"

Wammy nodded. "Correct."

"But—" Matt protested, sick. "You can't just…"

"I am reviewing facts, Matt," L retorted sharply. "Now. We don't know where Ringer is, only that he is missing?"

Wammy nodded. "The ghosting of the cameras was messy, but it will still take us some time. At any rate, we don't know where he is."

"We don't know where Mello is, either," Matt snapped. "He could be _dead_—"

Near interrupted him. "So could Ringer," Near said, his quiet voice a stark contrast to Matt's anger. "_Think_, Matt. That is what L is getting at. We know that Mello's physical condition is most likely stable for the moment. However, in light of what happened to Leo…"

"Ringer was what you would term a lackey, Matt," Wammy added. "He matches Leo's profile."

Matt snorted. "Hardly. I knew him. Ringer _liked _being in his pack. He was Acer's."

"Acer," L murmured. "That boy again. Do we have all of his pack members on the feeds?"

"I can't check everything, L," Wammy replied. "I don't know yet. But thus far, to the best of my knowledge, the only ones who know of the backup circuit are Matt, Mello, and Near, because we told them. The backup circuit should be intact—unless someone simply cuts the wires, in which case…"

"Understood." L met Matt's gaze. "Matt, you wish to look for Mello, correct?"

Matt glared at him. "We _need_ to."

"Even if Ringer's life is possibly endangered? This information changes things."

Matt didn't hesitate. "Yes."

L nodded. "Near." The albino glanced up, and L regarded him thoughtfully. "What do you believe?"

Near's index finger reached up to twine around a stray strand of hair. "I believe that, objectively, Ringer should be your first priority—"

"What the _hell_?" Matt couldn't help but interrupt, though he had_ known_ Near would see things objectively, as a matter of probabilities, not people. Was he the _only_ one who freaking cared about Mello?

Fucking _Near._

"—Due to the fact that a repeat of Leo's death must be avoided at all costs," Near continued. He paused. "However, I would like to look for Mello."

What the _hell_?

At least this time he didn't blurt it out.

L's eyebrows arched. "Truly?"

Near's fingers continued to twirl the lock of white hair. "Yes."

"Very well." L slid open the drawer to his side and held out—a truncheon?

Matt stared at it, still dizzy from Near's sudden reversal. "What…?"

L dropped the baton on his desk and withdrew another one, which he held in his hand. "I will not have you wandering the school unarmed. These are collapsible. You expand them like so"—He swung it to the side, and it opened—"though you may use them while collapsed if you wish. The inner tips are capped with steel." He inverted it and rammed the tip into the desk; it collapsed. "Do not use these unnecessarily, and if you must, do not aim for the head, spine, or major organs. I do not expect to see maimed, paralyzed, or dead students. Do I make myself clear?"

Matt and Near nodded numbly. "Now," L continued, "it is true that there are packs to worry about—_yes,_ Matt, you were correct; I am _not_ blind—however, I feel that these should be more than sufficient for self-defense, as weapons are hard for ordinary students to come by in this environment. Are there any questions?"

Wammy spoke up. "L—"

"Quilish, I will _not_ have my judgement questioned."

Wammy was silent for a beat, and then: "As you wish. You have my trust in this matter."

L nodded. "Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Do _not_ take this to mean that you are no longer under suspicion." L held out the truncheon again. "I expect these back at the end of the day, and Near is to report to me if anything odd should occur."

Matt took the baton, ignoring the sharp accusation. "So…you're going to let us look for Mello?"

"Yes."

"But…you're not going to help."

"No." L tossed the other truncheon to Near, who caught it clumsily. "Near?"

Near looked up, silent. L continued as if he had received an affirmative response. "Self-defense is a valuable skill. You will be fine."

Near's lip twitched. "I was not worried about such things, L."

Matt ran a finger along the collapsed baton. He should have known that L wouldn't come to Mello's aid. Since when had L ever done anything for the benefit of his best pupils? The truncheons were gifts enough.

"Good." L looked at Wammy. "Quilish—"

"Already done." Wammy gave L a shallow bow from the waist. "We're losing time."

"Agreed." L met Matt's gaze, then Near's. "You two. Be back here by curfew—that gives you five hours or so. Do not return to your rooms for the night without first seeing me."

Matt spun the truncheon in his hands and looked up. "I still think you're a pig, L. You won't have to worry about Ringer in an hour's time—"

"On the contrary." L shook his head. "In an hour's time, I may have extreme reason to worry over Ringer. In any event, my search teams will be looking for _both_ students. We'll probably put classes on lockdown." L waved them towards the door. "Now get out. I do not have time to waste with debate."

They left, the weapons resting heavily in their hands.

oO0Oo 

"Near," Matt said, while they were waiting for the printer to finish with their maps, "why did you come?"

Near turned around to face him. "Do I need a reason?"

"If you expect me to believe that you would ignore an objective viewpoint for Mello's sake—then, yes, you do need a reason."

"You won't like it."

Matt paused at that. "Why not?"

"I still think you have a part to play in Leo's murder," Near said, his voice as flat and blank as ever. "It is my belief that you are—if not the murderer—than very heavily involved."

Matt shook his head._Not again._ "So, all these years later, and you're still out to catch me," he said, choosing to dodge the question. Near wasn't an idiot; he heard the evasion, not the accusation.

"Is it your fault that Leo is dead?" Near inquired. "Even you must admit that your behavior has been suspicious."

Matt scowled at him. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response," he retorted, grabbing the maps as the printer finally spat them out. "Can't you leave it be?"

Near dropped the topic, but it didn't matter—the damage had been done.

Matt really, really wanted to hit something.

oO0Oo 

The maps were enormous.

A student—or, more likely, a group of students—was keeping Mello on the school grounds. They knew that much, at least; the real problem was the fact that Wammy House was just so _big_.

They had agreed that it would be best to map out the possibilities first and attack them one by one. Thankfully, Wammy had given them the codes for a set of limited blueprints via Raven. Mello was probably in a closet somewhere, or an unused bedroom, or an empty classroom, or—

In essence, any place that wasn't often frequented. That left a whole lot of rooms.

This wasn't going to work.

"Near, isn't there_any_ faster way?"

Near tossed him a bland glance. "Matt, until Wammy's program determines which cameras have been tampered with, we have no other option. Look." He walked back to where Matt had stopped in the middle of the hallway and poked a finger at the map. "We have narrowed our search range down to eighty-three potential areas. It is not a particularly daunting task—"

"Says the freak who does ten thousand-piece puzzles for fun," Matt retorted, folding the map up. "Eighty-three is prime, isn't it?"

Near gave him a strange look. "Why?"

Matt opened his mouth, then closed it. "Never mind," he said. "Random observation."

Near shook his head. "Come on." He paused. "Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Walk in front of me, please."

It was Matt's turn to cast Near an odd look. "Why—"

Near met his gaze; Matt scowled. "Do you honestly believe I would—"

"In front, please, Matt," Near said again, and Matt stalked ahead, irritated at the display of distrust.

"Fine."

Behind him, Near fingered his baton.

Keep you friends close, and your enemies closer, but _never_ turn your back on either.

oO0Oo 

"Hey, Mihael," Andrew said, leaning over to look. "What're you doing?"

Mihael scowled. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Andrew plucked the paper from off the desk and skimmed it, ignoring his brother's yelp of protest. "RSA and public-key cryptography. What do you need to know _that_ for?"

"Nothing," Mihael mumbled, tugging it back from him. "I just wanted to know."

"Why? Don't tell me Mrs. Bowen teaches you this stuff in first grade."

Mihael wrinkled his nose. "You're being silly." Andrew was _always_ silly, but at least he was in a good mood today. Sometimes when he was feeling bad, he would just be mean, and then he would steal things and shove Mihael around. It wasn't anything horrid, but it was annoying.

"Well, _duh_," Andrew retorted. "Some genius you are."

That was another assumed fact between the two of them. Andrew didn't bother patronizing his younger brother—not seriously, anyway, even if he did do it for fun. They were both technically geniuses, but they went to public school anyway.

Andrew didn't like it when Mihael did better, so it was best that way.

"I just wanted to know," Mihael said. "Even if I don't understand it all, 'cause I don't. I wanted to know what primes were for."

"What if they weren't for anything?"

"Huh?" That was a silly question. "Everything is for something."

Andrew laughed and leaned against the wall. "But what if they weren't good for anything? Would you still like them?"

Mihael blinked. "I guess."

"That's weird." Andrew shook his head. "I only like things that are useful."

That was an odd statement. Mihael mulled over that for a split second before dismissing it. Andrew was probably talking about their mother. She was gone again—drinking, Andrew said, though Mihael didn't quite understand what that had to do with anything. Didn't everybody _have_ to drink, same as eating or sleeping?

"That's silly." Mihael flashed a grin. "How would you figure out new things if you only did what people _knew_ was useful?"

"Stop being irritating." Andrew watched as Mihael went back to his schoolwork. "How many primes did you figure out today, Mihael?"

"I don't know how many." Mihael flipped to the back of his folder, revealing a thick wad of notebook paper covered in graphite scrawlings. "I'm at five thousand, one hundred an' thirteen right now, though."

"Five thousand…" Andrew shook his head. "Have you got them memorized yet?"

Mihael pulled a face. "C'mon, Andrew. I told you I'm awful at memorizing."

"Why?"

"It's _pointless_. Why would I need to memorize things when I can look them up?"

Andrew regarded him thoughtfully. "Hey. I've got an idea. A competition."

Mihael perked up at that. Competitions were always good.

"What?"

"I'm willing to bet that I can memorize the first 100 primes, and that you can't, even though you've got a leg up on me. One-week timeframe. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good to me," Mihael said, grinning. "I'm in."

oO0Oo 

Mello woke up, but not before that last conversation played out over his eyelids.

He felt sick.

_A competition._

He had had enough of bloody competitions.

Mello felt…better, now that he was back in reality. _You know what they say, don't you, Mihael? Reality is stranger than fiction…_

That memory shouldn't have stung. It shouldn't have, but it did, worse than the normal recollections of senseless cruelty, because that was it: one of the few glimpses he had of Andrew, the brother.

Reality was better, undoubtedly. His wrists felt raw, his neck ached, and his throat burned, but it was still so much better to be awake. The bells were gone, thank god, and he was alone.

It was dark again, though he had been expecting that. His eyes itched, and he wanted to scratch at the blindfold, but he couldn't. Mello scowled. The ghosts of his—dream? Memory? Nightmare?—still lingered in his ears. _Andrew_. He had almost forgotten that, once upon a time, they had actually been…close. Maybe Andrew had had a soul, once.

Hah.

Little Mihael had just been blind, back then. How old had he been? Six? Small wonder that he hadn't thought much of Andrew's differences. _I only like things that are useful._ What kind of ten-year-old said things like that? The only reason Andrew had gotten along with him was because a tiny six-year-old wasn't a threat.

_These geniuses of yours, Chessa—they're scary, sometimes._

_Everyone_ was a threat.

At any rate, that next week, when their mother announced that Mihael just showed _so_ much promise and deserved to be home-schooled—that was when it had started, really. He was always the best (always, _always_) but Mihael had concluded that being the best was the absolute worst thing a person could be.

The only problem was that he _liked_ being the best—even if he never had managed to memorize the first hundred primes, Mihael was used to winning.

Winning.

How the hell was he supposed to win in _this_ predicament?

Mello fingered the ropes around his wrists again. He knew how to get past knots, although it had been ages since he had needed the skills of an escape artist. He _knew_…

It was silent, as if he was alone, and Mello held his breath, listening. He hadn't been mistaken in his first impression upon waking—he _was_ alone. The younger boy who had been watching over him was gone.

The _why_ behind that fact was not his concern. Mello did _not_ feel inclined to subject himself to more dreams, more flashbacks.

Mello gritted his teeth and tugged at the ropes again, straining, trying to get a feel for exactly what kind of knots he was dealing with. There were ropes around his chest, tying him to his chair; the knots around his wrists were fairly simple, though bulky. Whoever had tied him had done a poor job—his thumbs were still free.

Mello shifted his hands, slowly, carefully, feeling his way through the labyrinth of his bindings despite his lack of sight. A twist of a wrist here, a painful wrenching of a finger there, and slowly, slowly, he began working at the knots. Abruptly, a sharp pain erupted at the socket of his thumb; he had gotten tangled in the maze of rope, and it _hurt_.

He clamped his teeth over his lip and tried to pry his thumb loose, but it remained firmly stuck. _Fuck_.

"How's it going?"

He almost yelped at the sudden noise, but bit his tongue in time; it wouldn't do to be caught trying to escape. If the Drawler caught him with his hands twisted like this, he'd probably knock Mello out again and redo the knots.

"I think it's working pretty well, actually," said another voice, this one new, and Mello relaxed. They weren't talking to him.

Actually, the voices weren't in the room with him, if he was any judge of noise. They sounded—muffled, almost, as if they were next door, or in an adjacent hallway.

He considered calling out for help, then shot that notion down.

Mello hadn't made many friends at Wammy House.

"Figures," the first kid said. Mello closed his eyes—a futile gesture, really, with the blindfold, but somehow he always managed to forget its presence—and listened, for all the good it did. It was a bland voice, an empty voice, and he couldn't place it. "I hadn't expected Ringer's little stunt to work in our favor, actually. How'd you wrangle that one?"

Ringer. Where had he heard that name before?

"I didn't do anything," the second boy replied, and _damn_, but Mello didn't recognize that voice, either. "He did. I mean, he didn't want anything left on the cameras, you know? So he ghosted them. None of the suspicion's on any of us, of course."

"Naturally."

"It's not hard, that. It's not like they'd ever think to look at _us_," the second boy said disdainfully. "We haven't got any rank to _our_ names, not like some."

"Should be a pretty nice shakeup, eh? We'll have to start studying, now that we'll actually have a chance."

"Whatever. We're not going to be the ones reaping the benefits."

"Hey, it's not my fault that your IQ is only in the 130's."

"Shut up." There was a squealing of reluctant wood, and Mello strained his ears to place it. "Anyway, at least I'm done watching the kid. It's so _dull_. I think he's still asleep."

Asleep?

Oh, _fuck_.

They were talking about _him_.

Well, at least he hadn't called out. Mello could just imagine the type of "help" they would have given him. This didn't make any sense. His captors—the plural was guaranteed, now—obviously weren't too bright. They were being careless. Mello hadn't heard any names yet, but was willing to bet that soon enough, one of them would slip up. The lack of names was probably a rule of their higher-ups rather than something they had thought up themselves.

"I hope that our lord hacker gets back soon," the other boy said with a laugh. "At least I won't be bored then. Did you see the kid squirm when he started up that bell soundtrack? It was hilarious."

Mello forced his breathing to even out. The last thing he needed right now was for them to realize that he was awake.

He _needed_ to get out of here.

Mello prayed that they wouldn't notice the odd position of his hands.

oO0Oo 

Matt threw open the door, the truncheon clenched in his fist warily.

"Empty," he said. "Again."

Behind him, Near dutifully marked off the classroom on the map. Matt flicked the light switch off, disgusted. "How many more?"

"Seventy-two," Near said flatly. "We have checked about an eighth of the potential sites."

Matt scowled and closed the door. "Yeah, whatever. This isn't _working_." He sighed and combed a hand through his hair. "What time is it?"

Near frowned. "We have plenty of time until curfew, Matt. There is no reason to—"

Matt stalked past him and checked the hall clock. It read—

Six fifty-two. Dinner would be over in eight minutes.

"Oh, _shit_," Matt said, feeling his gut twist. _Acer_. How could he have forgotten?

"Near," he said slowly, "I don't think this is going to work, and I have to go, so—"

"Where?"

Matt hesitated. He knew full well that there were consequences attached to either course of action. He could leave the search for Mello for a later time and meet with Acer, thereby giving Near and L yet another reason to distrust him. Or, he could continue to search for Mello, which would probably be the ethical thing to do, but it would make a certain bully more than a little angry.

Matt took a breath. "Near."

"Yes?" Near answered testily. Matt sighed; Near wasn't exactly one for wasting time.

"Look, I was supposed to meet Acer today right after dinner—"

"Acer?" Near raised an eyebrow. "I was unaware that you had anything to do with him. What happened?"

"If you'd let me_ finish_—"

"My apologies," Near said, even though it was anything but.

"Acer…wanted to make me an offer to go for a run with his pack."

Near wondered if he had heard correctly.

For someone who claimed to loathe Acer and the pack hierarchy with every fiber of his being, Matt certainly knew how to surprise.

"And you planned on accepting?"

Matt snorted. "I don't trust Acer farther than I can throw him."

"That was a dodge."

Near studied Matt's face carefully, but it was no use; deciphering emotions and motives had never been a strong point of his. He did, however, know Matt well enough to know that he would never have accepted Acer's offer. Matt had an unfortunate case of pride. It wasn't the kind of pride that inspired respect or encouraged hard work; the only thing Matt's sort of pride had ever done was cause him pain, at least to Near's eyes.

Matt scowled. "Now you're just wasting time."

"True," Near said, unfazed. "What did you expect to accomplish with Acer, and why is he worth more than Mello?"

"Don't phrase it like that."

"Fine. Answer the question."

Matt took out his baton and twirled it between his fingers. "Think, Near. There's a certain face that just keeps popping up, isn't there?"

Near felt his lips curling in spite of himself, though he couldn't have said if they were twisting into a smile or a sneer. "You want to confront him."

"Yes."

"You're suggesting that he might be related to the case?"

"Yes." The baton twirled over his knuckles and spun into the air. Matt caught it deftly with his left hand and continued the cycle, a spinning display of violence tamed. "I think…it's long since time I had a chat with him on even terms, anyway. Don't you think, Near?" Matt grinned. "Not as if you had anything to do with my experiences with Acer, mind, but I like the idea."

"I have nothing to do with Acer," he retorted. "What happens between the two of you is none of my business."

It was a bit of a lie, and they both knew it, but that was okay, really.

Near's mind was working at top processing power, analyzing, running through all the possible implications of Matt's statement. Matt obviously wanted to throw the suspicion away from himself; he had a personal grudge against Acer; he had a personal grudge against Near; he was still afraid, when all was said and done; he supposedly cared about Mello…

"Look," said Matt, "I'm not going to force you to come, but I've got to go. I don't have much time, and it really wouldn't do to make Acer mad."

Near frowned. "What about Mello?"

What about Mello, indeed. Matt's emerald eyes sharpened into that familiar gemstone hardness, and Near had to wonder what he was supposed to tell L.

It didn't matter, in the end.

"Near," he said, "I_know_ that Acer is up to something. You heard him, in the clearing."

"Telling Mello to catch the murderer," Near said.

"Yeah. Can you tell me that wasn't just a little bit…I don't know, out of character?"

Near frowned. "Matt."

"Look, I need to leave—"

"Why do you care?"

It was an abrupt question, and a vague one. Matt shot him a look. "_Elaborate_, you idiot."

"Why have you wasted time trying to convince me that meeting with Acer is good and necessary and ethical?" Near smiled at him, and Matt felt like swearing. "Can you tell me that isn't a bit…out of character?"

Near was smirking, victorious.

Oh, the _bastard_.

Near simply watched his onetime roommate, watched the childish fury etch itself across his face as he realized that he had walked neatly into a trap—Near's trap, Near's plan. Near watched as the bitter scent of defeat worked its way into his head; he watched as Matt slowly replayed their conversation, picking apart the subtle leads that he had so willingly followed.

Near felt pleased; Matt felt furious

Matt knew exactly what had transpired. Near was right, of course. Civil conversation between the two of them _was_ rare, but he hadn't stopped to think about it—he _should_ have noticed that something was off,_should_ have realized that most times, when they talked, hostilities were exchanged. And Matt hadn't been polite to Near today, not by a long shot, but he had forgotten to lace his words with venom.

He had just been called out on an act, and Matt didn't know what came next in his script. Near had always been like that, hadn't he? Too goddamned perceptive. Now, of course, the freak's mind was turned to him, to the suspicious aura that Matt just couldn't seemed to shake, and for the life of him the gamer didn't know what to do to erase that suspicion.

"I wasn't lying," he snapped, and Near's smile widened.

"I know," he replied simply, and turned around and bloody _walked away._

And Matt—Matt didn't know if Near was being honest or mocking, disagreeing or concurring. Matt didn't know _anything_.

The hell with it.

The digital clock in the hall slipped to seven o'clock, and Matt left.

* * *

**AN**. Normally, writing a chapter comes easily, once I get into it. This one, on the other hand, involved a good deal of _thought_, possibly due to the fact that I'm sick. Meh. I hope it was okay. :) 

Anyway! I'm getting excited, because I think I have most of what comes next plotted out in my head, including various bits of character development and such. L gave the kids batons--what on earth was he thinking? oO For those of you who don't know, batons are often used by police as an intermediate step between hands-on combat and guns. They can HURT. Meep.

I started & finished the DN novel about the BB murders today. It was wonderful. See? My version of Wammy now has a vaguely canonical basis. Just look at the murderer that they turned out in the book. He makes me smile.

Well, off I go. Reviewers have my undying thanks!

Fly 


	18. Truths

**AN:** My apologies for the delay in updating, and for the probably disjointedness of the chapter. This was hard to write, for some reason or another. And--all the line breaks in my old chapters are GONE. I need to go back and use horizontal rules. Ick!!

* * *

Linel tapped a few keys on his laptop and waited expectantly. The tiny machine whined as the fan kicked in, protesting from being overworked; it wasn't as if _he_ could afford shiny new toys every year, and his computer was, sadly, growing old.

It was bothersome to deal with its limitations, but he _loved_ this laptop, despite of and because of its old age. Linel knew how to make the clattering plastic keys dance like the ivory and ebony of a piano beneath his fingers; he knew how to twist the cryptographic song of coding into any melody he wanted, so long as it was imaginable. Matt, the third-place gaming genius, was good at computers, sure, but Linel knew that he was _better_.

No one else agreed, but that was fine. It would all change soon enough, anyway.

Acer paced behind him. "You done yet?"

"No." Due to the fact that he was propped up on his elbows, Linel didn't bother spinning around to face the older boy—a transgression that would have meant a cuff to the head for anyone else. Acer let him be. At least _Acer_ knew that Linel was worth something, even if he had no idea precisely how much his subordinate was capable of. "You _know_ this always takes me a while."

"I thought you said you were streamlining the code."

"Yeah, well, I've been running it all bloody day, so it's not going to be as fast as it could be, all right?" Linel scowled as his computer gave him yet another warning message about overheating. "Can you tell some kid to get me a couple ice packs?"

Acer paused in his pacing to stare at the back of Linel's head. "_Ice_ packs? I don't see any bruises on you."

It was meant as a warning, but Linel ignored it. "For my computer, Acer," he said, though the intonation of his elder's name suggested that he normally would have replaced it with a more descriptive term. "It's going to overheat if we're not careful."

Acer turned around and made a curt gesture towards one of the younger kids. "You. Go get a couple of ice packs from the kitchen freezers. _Fast_."

"But Cook—"

"You deaf, kid?" Acer demanded. "Sure as hell seems like you're dumb." The kid ducked his head and darted out the door, terror pouring off of him like rain off a rooftop.

Linel fought the urge to laugh, because _that_ would be crossing a line. It was just so funny how Acer could take _his_ backtalk and condescension just fine one minute and then snarl at whatever poor innocent spoke next. He had some _power_ here.

_Let's be honest, Linel_, he chided himself. _The only power you've got is entirely dependent on your laptop. It's a bit early to be getting delusional._

His program finished running and chirped at him. "Done," Linel said, twisting to glance over his shoulder at the older boy. "Don't run too many vids, though, or it really will die on me."

Acer crouched down next to him. "What's wrong with the school desktops, anyway? They're a good five times better than this piece of crap you've got."

"It's _my_ piece of crap," Linel retorted defensively. "And anyway, then Wammy would be able to see everything I did."

There was an unspoken _duh_ at the end of his statement. Acer ignored it. "Well, can you at least show me something?"

Linel nodded and tapped at the keys. It was awkward being sprawled out on the floor, and it occurred to Linel now that Acer had probably picked the spare classroom for that reason. It was carpeted, there were no desks or chairs left in it—where else would his pet hacker set up shop, but the floor?

"Here," he said, pointing to the screen. Acer followed his lead. "There he is. Coming to see us after all."

"What camera is that?"

There was no _good job_, no _well done_, no pat on the back, not that Linel had been expecting any gratitude. "91d," he said. "He'll be here in…say, ten minutes?"

"The bastard'll be late."

"'Bastard'll' isn't a valid contraction."

"Shut _up._" Linel was suddenly very much aware of Acer's breath in his ear. "Watch yourself."

Ouch. That statement usually precipitated a none-too-gentle form of rebuke. Linel rolled his weight onto his left elbow, away from Acer. "Sorry."

Acer snorted and rose nimbly to his feet. "Get your laptop hidden. Last thing he needs to realize is that there are other hackers in the building besides himself."

Well, that was odd, Linel mused. Acer hadn't been that mad after all—either that, or Linel just had a habit of getting off easy. "Yessir," he said aloud, shutting the lid of his laptop. The fan ground to a lazy halt, and Linel's eyebrows snapped together irritably—without the fan running, it would be red-hot when he turned it on again. "Where's that kid, anyway?"

Said kid stumbled in the door five or so minutes later, his face strawberry-red and anxious. "Got them," he managed, handing them off to Acer before falling back into the faceless clump of lackeys by the door. Acer chucked the ice packs at Linel, who caught them deftly.

"Did you get chased by a saber-toothed tiger or something?" Linel inquired, slapping one of the ice packs to the bottom of the laptop. "You're _scarlet_."

The boy swallowed, unused to being directly addressed. "Just Cook."

"Same difference," Acer said, and laughed.

Linel just waited for his laptop to cool off. Bloody Matt needed to get here soon, and Linel sure as hell hoped that he didn't linger long. He didn't understand the kid's special treatment—by _everyone_, it seemed, not just L or Roderick or Mello.

Yeah, he had hacked into Wammy's system a while back, all the way down to the personal messages. L had apparently given personal instructions to most of teachers—Roderick in particular—to give Matt a hard time. That was years ago by now, but it still stung. _Matt_ had been worth pushing, even back when he was in tenth place. What had made that kid so special?

Linel was just as good as any of them—better than Acer was, better than Matt, probably better than Mello, too. He didn't have any weird baggage sagging around his neck like all of them. Linel knew who he was, and _damn it_, if he hadn't needed to keep his grades below Acer's, he would've been the one investigating the stupid murder.

The ice pack grew slick beneath his fingers, and Linel dropped it away from his laptop.

* * *

When Matt walked in, the room dropped into silence.

"Hey," he said awkwardly. The collapsed baton was stuffed into the pocket of his jeans, but that didn't stop his instinctive change of gait at the sight of the gathered boys. The same eight were there, more or less—four lanky, four heavyset—but Acer and Linel had joined them to bring the number up to ten. Great.

Ten bullies versus one kid with a baton.

"Matt," Acer said cheerfully. "We didn't know if you'd show up."

"Unlike some," Matt returned, "I don't lie."

"Never said you did," Acer said, still upbeat. "I figured you might have to take a detour, what with the lockdown and all."

"Ah—right." The lockdown—L had mentioned that. "Still, you should know, Acer. Teachers have always been the least of my worries, yeah?"

Acer laughed, a full-throated chuckle that set Matt's neck tingling. "Yeah." His grin widened into a Cheshire mockery of goodwill. "That doesn't need to be a permanent situation, you know."

"Is that so?" Matt shook his head, a slow smile that was entirely false working its way across his face with disarming ease. "Well, actually, I had a few questions, but it looks like you came prepared…"

"Prepared?" Acer mimed surprise. "What, you mean my friends here?"

Matt shrugged, the smile still plastered to his face. "Well, yeah."

He was taking a risk, but he had been telling the truth to Near earlier—mostly. He _did_ believe that Acer had something to do with Mello's disappearance. In light of the circumstances, it was fairly obvious. Who else could it have been? At any rate, demanding answers from Acer wouldn't work if he had nine boys to act tough in front of, and if it came down to a fight, there was no way in hell Matt was ready to take on all of them.

Acer cocked his head to the side. "You're a bold one, kid."

"Yep."

Acer waved a hand. "All of you, out—Linel, you stay. I want a witness. Everyone else, wait by the door. Close it after you."

Linel's eyes flashed blue from his spot lurking in the back. Matt rolled Acer's words around his tongue, tasting, testing—a witness for _what_, exactly?

The other boys left, and the wooden door shut behind them. Matt took a breath.

Step one, complete.

* * *

Linel couldn't believe it when Matt made that request.

He just—he couldn't. It didn't make sense. And then Acer, Acer _granted_ it, damn him, and told Linel _to stay put_ like a goddamn dog. Well, fuck that.

The others had probably seen it as a sign of Acer's trust in his 'friend,' but Linel wasn't that stupid. They played the game, they pretended to be friends, because it suited them both. Acer wasn't an idiot. He knew he needed Linel for his abilities; Linel knew that he needed Acer for his protection—

His _abilities._ Why hadn't he seen it before? That was why Acer had abruptly extended his offer to Matt. Matt was a hacker too, wasn't he?

_I'm better than you._

Not that it mattered who was better. Perception was everything, and if Acer decided he was expendable…

A plan began to worm its way through Linel's mind, and he settled back to wait.

* * *

Matt watched the kids leave, each avoiding his gaze like the plague. Linel, though—Linel stayed, watching, wary, looking at Matt with a careful blankness in his eyes.

Matt's eyelids slid shut, and a battery of images flashed through his vision—

Nighttime, and he was hungry. When he had seen the rankings that night, he had bolted without finishing dinner; now, his stomach was complaining all too loudly. The closet door swung open, and he left, aiming for the cafeteria, only to stumble on them—

Acer, Martin, a few nameless faces—all strangers, all terrifying, but Acer was the worst of all. And Leo: on the floor, whimpering, and was he that stupid? You didn't cry out, you didn't, you either agreed and gave in or you held your tongue and took it—what was the point of resisting if you were going to cry…

And then blood, red red red against the tile, and how were they going to clean that up…

He had been…numbed, seeing that, seeing Acer in his element after so long. How long had he wrapped himself in his ranking, hiding behind it while the world spun on? And then it hit him: just a few hours earlier, Acer had flaunted Matt's new third-place ranking in his face, which meant that in one person's eyes, at least, Matt was fair game…

Matt had left, tiptoeing backwards and fleeing to the janitor's closet, and behind him, Acer laughed…

Acer had been the one to kill Leo; of that, Matt was almost certain. He had glimpsed Leo's wounds, had seen the extent of the damage—it hadn't seemed as if Leo was that close to death, but in hindsight, with Leo's corpse weighing on his memory…

How could he have been so stupid?

It's all…your…fault.

And so, it came to this: Acer versus Matt, an old battle, and one that he had always lost. He always would lose, if he played by the rules; Acer was stronger, faster, better…except when it came to things like academics, and then Matt could finally win.

Matt only won when he could bend the rules—like now, with the baton jammed in his pocket and the truth on hand. Except—he couldn't hold Acer's guilt above the bully's head, because there was the little matter of the security cameras…

Matt had ghosted the video feeds. Near's claim that Matt had done so to cover his tracks was perfectly correct, but Matt hadn't killed Leo. He hadn't even known Leo was dead. He had just wanted to hide from Acer. It was a simple thing to view the feeds, and Acer always checked—always, always, and the last thing Matt had needed was for the bully to discover his hiding spot. Ghosting was just an everyday defensive tactic.

Who would believe him, if he pointed to Acer? Matt had effectively killed himself by covering his ass, that night; when he had heard that Leo had died, it had seemed…impossible, improbable. At the time, he had been glad he had ghosted those cameras—what would have happened, if Mello knew that Matt had passed up the chance to save Leo's life?

Matt felt sick.

And here was Acer: Acer, the old menace; Acer, his ever-present motivation; Acer, the murderer; Acer, who didn't know what Matt knew.

This was going to end badly.

"So," said Acer with his characteristic grin, "what did you want to ask me?"

And so it began.

Matt didn't waste any time. "Where's Mello?" he asked, his tone sharp. Acer relished in that, rolled the sound of Matt's anger around his head, and he grinned again. It had been a long time since this particular kid had been a valid target, but they still knew each other, inside and out.

His enjoyment was diminished, though, in the face of confusion: Matt was given to roundabout speeches on occasion, but he wasn't beating about the bush here. Where was Mello? Acer didn't know, didn't care. Wasn't that Matt's job, to keep tabs on his new foundling?

"I don't know," Acer retorted, not bothering with lies. Matt obviously had some explaining to do. This was not what he had expected when he had "invited" Matt to go on a run. "Shouldn't you be the one to know that?"

Matt's jaw worked. "Well, I certainly don't know. I was hoping you might." Maybe it was Acer's imagination, but Matt sounded like he was trying not to spit venom and failing miserably. He had never been good at the whole politeness nonsense.

"Temper, temper, Matthais," Acer said, and now he was beginning to get irritated. "Seriously. What's Mello got to do with me?"

"He's missing," Matt said flatly. "And don't tell me you don't know where he is."

"You're not being polite, you know."

"Yeah."

Acer sighed. "Why would I know where Mello is?"

Matt scowled. "Because he was about to come to a breakthrough on the Leo case, obviously! Why else?"

"Wait." Acer cocked his head to the side and frowned. "The Leo case? Why—what does that have to do with anything?"

Leo's death had been an absolute mess. What were the odds, after all, of the kid kicking the bucket the same night that Acer had given him his "introduction"? He hadn't meant to hurt anyone—

Okay, that was a complete lie, Acer admitted to himself, biting back a laugh. He had meant to hurt Leo. Duh. But he sure as hell hadn't meant to kill the kid, and he was pretty sure that he hadn't. Which meant that someone else had killed him, but if the feeds leaked, then Acer would be suspect numero uno. That, in turn, meant that Acer had a rather significant investment in making sure that the investigation team found the truth.

And now Mello, the newest little prodigy, was…missing, and Matt thought he had something to do with it. Gree-ate.

"What do you mean?" Matt demanded, drawing Acer back into the present. "Look, Acer. Mello was onto something—him and L and…Near, they were almost there. And now Mello goes missing, which cripples the investigation team while they try to find him. What does that look like?"

"Looks like someone's at their wit's end," Linel said from the back of the room, startling both of them. Acer caught himself from jumping, but it was close; he had forgotten about his subordinate.

Damned hacker.

"I mean," Linel continued, "why else would they pull a stunt like that? It can't be a coincidence. They're trying to cover their trails…"

"Exactly," Matt said. Acer frowned.

"That has nothing to do with me, Matt. You know that—"

"No," Matt disagreed. "I don't."

"You think…" Acer trailed off as anger began to worm its way through his thoughts. "Damn it, Matt, you think I killed Leo."

"Yeah."

Matt matched his gaze, but Acer could see them: the thin slivers of uncertainty, running like hair-thin cracks through the fractured landscape of Matt's green eyes. Acer latched onto those cracks hungrily, like a drowning man clutching at a lifeline, because he needed Matt's uncertainty. This was exactly what he had been hoping to prevent.

"I didn't kill anyone, Matt," Acer said, opting for the soft, silver-tongued plea of earnestness. "I don't lie."

Funnily enough, Acer realized dryly, it was true; he didn't lie. The truth was so much more entertaining—particularly when the truth could scald, could destroy, like the truth that Linel's position was only temporary. Acer had seen Linel's reaction when he had first started dropping hints, and the sadistic pleasure had burned like alcohol on his tongue. Who needed lies when the truth was so much more powerful?

"I don't believe you," Matt said softly, but Acer saw it: Matt's own self-doubt, nearly smothered by a peculiar sort of hunger.

Matt wanted Acer to be the murderer.

"Matt," Linel said, speaking up again from the back of the room, "maybe you should reconsider—"

Matt snorted. "No," he said. "I don't think I should."

Acer had a problem.

If Matt believed he was the murderer, then the investigation team was probably considering it, too. And that was dangerous. Acer wasn't about to be pinned for a crime he hadn't committed. Oh, when he got his hands around the murderer's neck—

"Look," he said finally. "I take it that you never planned on running with me?"

It wasn't a question, really. "No."

"Fine." Acer crossed his arms. "Remember, though: I didn't kill anyone"—Matt scoffed—"and, more importantly, if you're not with me, well." Acer would normally have grinned at that point, but he didn't feel up to faking it. "I suppose you're fair game, eh, Matthais?"

Matt shrugged, his emerald eyes narrowed to flinty pinpoints of animosity. "Fine," he retorted. "But you can't fool everyone, Acer. There're bigger bullies than you in this school, and one of them is named L."

Matt spun on his heel and closed the door behind him. Acer stared after him for a moment. Numbness pounded through his veins, followed closely by fire: the game had begun.

"Should I get the boys?" Linel asked from behind him, coolly, as if nothing had happened. Acer wasn't fooled.

"Yeah," he said, as the memory of a grin flitted across his face wearily. "Yeah. I need a run, don't you?"

Linel said nothing, and Acer grimaced.

Just one more problem to keep at bay.

* * *

"You're sure?"

_"Do you think I'm an idiot? It's going to happen."_

"But the footage—"

_"The footage is clear. Acer and his lot thrashing Leo; Matt in the shadows, watching. It's obvious."_

"If it's obvious, then why are you worried?"

Quickly: _"I'm not."_

"You sound like it."

_"Look, you listen to me, not to your dumbbell ears. I'm still Acer's, you know."_

A pause.

"Sorry. But…I don't know about this, still."

_"Just leave it to me."_ A drawled laugh, echoing across the line in a blur of static, and the other winced and held the receiver from his ear. _"One of them is gonna be pinned. We don't have anything to worry about at all, you got it?"_

Another pause, this one longer. "Yeah."

_"How's Mello, by the way?"_

"Hungry. Irate. Awake." The plastic cord spun slow circles around his index finger. "I wouldn't worry too much. When're we letting him out?"

_"Once I'm done on my end. Acer's going to love it."_

"Alright, then. See you later."

_"Mm."_

Twin clicks, and the lines went dead.

* * *

It was silent—not from the tension, but because there were no words to be had. The teachers avoided each other's gazes awkwardly, focusing instead on various patches of carpet throughout the room.

"Have _none_ of you seen either of them?" L demanded again. He paused in his pacing to glare at them. "I cannot believe…" He shook his head, interrupting himself. "No, I _do_ believe this. _The harvest belongs to the one who sowed the seeds, _after all…"

"Enough, L," Wammy said sharply. "You couldn't have expected this. We are in the present, not the past."

"I am aware of that," L snapped. He scowled at the silent assembly of teachers again. "Now. I expect an immediate report in the event that—"

"Sir!"

The door opened, and Roger appeared, wheezing. "Sir, I've got a report from the local police station—"

"The police?" L said sharply, spinning around to face him. "I instructed you not to get them involved—"

"Sir, it's not that," Roger interrupted. "They've found Ringer. He ran away, and they caught him."

"They caught…" L trailed off, staring beyond Roger. "Report, Roger."

"We've also revealed some new footage, sir," Roger said, shifting his weight to his other foot. "It's of Ringer attacking Mello with some sort of aerosol before knocking him unconscious."

L's thumb slipped into his mouth. He bit down on the pad of skin, hard, trying to puzzle out this latest riddle and arriving at the answer all too quickly.

"Roger."

"Yes, sir?"

"Where is Ringer now?"

Roger frowned. "In the holding room you ordered built earlier, I believe. He's been searched."

"Good."

L gave the assembled teachers one last stare, his dark eyes flat and void. "There will be changes once this is concluded," he informed them. "Please be aware of that." He turned to look at Roger again. "Roger, you are dismissed. Wammy, if you would…?"

"Of course," Wammy said.

When the door clicked shut, some of the silence diffused, and again normal sounds like breathing seemed acceptable. The teachers' relief was brief, however.

The status quo was no more.

Ringer was a snub-nosed boy with a mess of dark hair and an ugly blue-and-yellow ring spreading around his left eye. He was blindfolded, and his wrists were manacled to the arms of the chair, which L thought to be vaguely excessive. L watched him carefully through the one-way glass, a lollipop clenched tightly between his teeth as he surveyed the room.

The holding room had been more of an afterthought than anything, but like all of L's afterthoughts, it had been executed with flawless precision. L had never dreamed of using it to house a child; his visions had involved important witnesses or hostages and the like. Now, he was glad he had ordered it built. The walls shone with the harsh glare of steel; drywall would have been far too dangerous and fragile a building material. Behind the steel was a two-foot thick concrete barrier followed by a foot of solid lead, designed to silence any minor electrical signals. When L had something built, it went above and beyond his needs—overkill, perhaps, but overkill never hurt…

Except, perhaps, when you were dealing with the human psyche instead of inanimate building supplies. L had to wonder, looking at the forlorn form of the bound boy in the center of the room, if maybe overkill was a very real weight to add to his conscience.

L palmed the sensor on the door, prompting the steel to slide back and allow him entrance. The boy's head jerked up at the sound of L's footsteps, and the detective untied the knots on his blindfold. Ringer winced as the light hit his eyes, scalding, like a breath of fire against his optical nerves. L stepped back, waiting, and Ringer swallowed.

"Ringer," the detective said, softly, "are you all right?"

Ringer's head bobbed in an affirmative nod. The thicket of dark hair flopped messily along with the action, a parody of something once clean. "Yeah."

"Good." L's poor posture put them at eye level, even with Ringer still bound to the chair. "I apologize for the restraints, but I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Shoot," Ringer said wearily. L cocked his head to the side, fascinated by the turn of phrase.

"I beg your pardon? I am not carrying a weapon—"

"In other words, go ahead and ask me the questions." Ringer's voice was dull. L shrugged.

"Thank you, Ringer." L's left hand toyed with the stick of his lollipop, spinning it over his tongue. "Please tell me—why did you run away?"

"Why?" Ringer stared at him flatly. "I didn't want to be here any longer, obviously."

L frowned. "If there was a problem, you could have taken it up with the staff," he said. "Roger is always willing to listen."

"No," Ringer disagreed. "He isn't. And it doesn't matter, anyway," he added. "I wanted to get away on my own terms." Ringer shrugged. "It doesn't matter. My cousin Peter is already arranging the legal papers and things. I'll be out of your hair."

L's expression was unreadable as he inclined his head. "Very well, then," he said. "I am sorry that you feel this way, but that is a topic for another time." He rocked back on his heels and shoved the lollipop to the side of his cheek to make his speech clearer. "I really want to know about Mello—"

"It's always about Mello, isn't it?" Ringer interrupted, and for once, emotion seeped into his voice. "It used to be Near, or Matt, but it's all the same." He shrugged again. "It's not like it matters, L, but I just don't like being a pawn."

"A pawn?" L shook his head. "Again, I apologize if I have inadvertently harmed you, Ringer, but the Wammy students are hardly my pawns."

"Yeah, we are." Ringer's eyes were flat and lazy. "We're only there to spur on the other kids, and you know it. It's always been that way, after all—"

Something snapped in the air between them, and L's spine stiffened. "I never intended harm to my students," he snapped, and Ringer shut up. "You, on the other hand, have harmed somebody, have you not?"

Ringer's eyes immediately flashed. "No—"

"Yes," L disagreed abruptly. "We have you on tape."

"Oh."

L raised an eyebrow and began crunching on his lollipop. "Oh? Is that all?"

Ringer scowled and looked at the floor. "Yeah."

"Ringer," L said, as gently as possible, "I am trying to secure the safety of my students. After this incident, you can rest assured that Wammy House will change, but for now, we are in the present, and the sooner you tell me where Mello is, the easier this will be."

Ringer rubbed his feet together. "What if I don't tell you?"

"This," L said, blandly, "is a holding room, after all." He straightened slightly, so that he was looking down at the boy. "I normally use it for interrogation sessions."

He watched the stunned widening of Ringer's eyes with a grim sort of satisfaction. He wasn't serious—not quite. Near's program was proving to be invaluable; within an hour or so the feeds would be at his fingertips. Still, L preferred to act as quickly as possible. He had already postponed a specific search for Mello due to this boy's stupidity. Ringer had no sympathy from L. If he had to play psychological games to get his information, so be it.

"I don't know," Ringer mumbled, addressing his grubby tennis shoes. "Sorry."

L frowned. "But you—"

"I knocked him out," Ringer said surlily, "but that's it. I left him in the hall, then ran off to find my cousin. The others were supposed to get him."

"Others?" The lollipop crunched again. "Who were they?"

"I don't know," Ringer grumbled, still addressing the floor. "We only talked on the nets—they said they would ghost my escape. It's bad to talk to people outright, you know," he said, a touch defensively. "Then the packs have an excuse to go at you."

L frowned. "You don't know anything."

"I—yeah." Ringer swallowed. "Sorry."

The sugar crumbled to dust on his tongue. L slipped his hands in his pockets and turned around abruptly, silently. Ringer's head jerked up behind him as L slowly plodded his way towards the door.

"Are you—am I going to just stay here?"

L didn't turn around. "You wanted to leave, didn't you?"

"Well…yeah…"

"Good." L palmed the interior scanner. "Once your adoption papers go through, your cousin may take custody of you."

"But—that'll be at least a week—"

The door slid shut behind him. Secure, invisible behind the one-way glass, L turned around. Ringer was still staring at the door, his face crumpled.

Such violence in these innocent experiments of theirs.

Where did it come from?

L dug his earwire out of his jeans pocket and jammed it in. It turned on with a chirp. "Wammy."

"Yes, L?"

"Have you any news?"

They had made quite the mess, the two of them, blundering about like a pair of drunken terrorists, leaving destruction in their wake. He would have more than enough to clean up once this was all over—more than enough…

L quickened his pace as he climbed the stairs. He needed sugar.

* * *

**AN:** Well, I hope it was worth the wait. Blah. I seem to have hit a bout of writer's block. I'm also realizing all the things I need to improve before starting my next story...like, the fact that most of the characters apparently aren't likable. Personally, I don't mind cold-hearted bastards, but, meh...there's a number of other stylistic things that I think are icky, too, but I won't bore you with those. Suffice to say, this is a learning experience.

Originally, this chapter had an intense fight scene majig between Acer and Matt. I was ten pages in before I scrapped the whole thing. Yeah. I think this version is better...hopefully.

I wonder who the murderer is, hmm? Matt thinks it's Acer. ;P I'm not telling.

Anyway. Love to my reviewers, as always. You lot are made of win. Hopefully my writer's block will go away soon.

Fly

April 2nd, 2008. 9:45 PM


	19. Finality

**AN:** Hey, all you authors--have you noticed that auto-duplicates the first line of all documents? Weird. **EDIT:** Fixed line breaks. Gaaah.

Anyway, here's the nineteenth installment, for your viewing enjoyment. Things are going to get a bit more exciting, kind of-sort of. Yay. I'm having fun. You might notice that this chapter's early, and it is, but that's because it engulfed me and I _have_ to post it. I'm addicted. Hurrah!

You know the drill: read, review, I love the world, etc, etc. Yay. :) There's a quote later on in this chapter. See if you can recognize it.

Fly

* * *

Matt left the spare classroom in a haze, grounded to reality only by the dull, cold weight of the baton in his pocket. Everything else important, everything else that mattered—it was all _otherwhere,_ locked in a universe that he couldn't reach. Truths and lies, facts and mysteries; he didn't know anything at all, except the solid fact of his own ignorance.

_Damn_ it all.

Acer had to be guilty, no matter how much he denied it, but what was Matt's word worth, now? Acer was denying everything; none of the boys would come forward, and he didn't know anyone who would believe his version of events.

It didn't matter any longer. Acer knew him for the sham he was, as did Linel. With the two of them holding Matt's (relatively minor) crime of ghosting in their ever-so-benevolent hands, it didn't matter what he did or said. The game of Wammy House, the game of survival that he had been playing for so long—he had lost it. It was as simple as that. He had lost, Acer had won, and it felt…_conclusive_, more than anything else, Matt decided, rolling the word through his mind. _Final._ Losing—it hurt, sure, but it meant that the game was over.

Why care about Leo, after all was said and done? Past was past; you could grieve for it, mourn its passing, but Matt had never been good at empathy. He had never been good at compassion or caring or any of those other damned emotions that you were supposed to expect from a human being. To be more precise, he had been _too_ good at them. Wammy House had broken him like a horse to bridle.

He had priorities, now. Forget Leo. Find Mello. Prove his innocence. Nothing else mattered; the game had been long since lost.

Mello, though. Mello. Mello had been a rare find in the gray landscape—a foul-mouthed street rat with angel's hair who made the rest of them look like savages. Matt owed Mello something for kicking him out of the lethargic apathy that had grown like a cancer in his life. God, how long had it been since anything had broken through the ice crusting around his consciousness, until Mello had come?

He had lost the game, sure, but Matt was done with frivolity. Wammy House had been a game, a morbidly serious one—who could trump who, who was smarter, faster, stronger, _better_. It wasn't, anymore. Leo had died for the game; maybe it had taken Matt that long to realize that the games were over, and that the priorities in his life had to be restructured.

He was running before he knew where he was going, although there was only one legitimate answer. L and Near didn't know half as much about programming as he did, and Matt decided, with more than a little grim satisfaction, that it was time to see just how far his hacking skills had progressed.

* * *

Martin couldn't believe it when he heard the kid's steps, trotting to catch up to them. He hadn't expected Linel to be so brash as to fall back in after it was over. Was he an idiot? Didn't he know about Acer's orders, about his true intentions behind inviting the brat Matthais over for a "chat"? Did he really think he was secure in his position?

Well, of course he did. The answer to all three of those was a simple 'yes.' Martin's lip twitched. He was Linel, after all. Linel could be defined by such a simple hunger—his need to be recognized. Oh, the poor baby. It must've stung to know what Acer had planned.

Martin greeted him, out of condescension rather than courtesy. "Linel," he said, amber eyes glowing with a faint malice. "What's up?"

Linel fell into step with him. "Naught but the usual. You know me well enough."

Oh yes I do, thought Martin, but he chose to say nothing. Linel was dangerous, like a cool-eyed asp in angel's garb; his malice burned cold, not hot, and Martin didn't care to attack him without certainty of total victory. "How'd it go with Matt?"

"Fine." Linel shrugged, careless. "He seems to think that Acer murdered Leo."

Martin kept his voice carefully neutral. "Leo?"

"Yeah, Leo." Linel's lips curled in a bastardized half-smile that was closer to a cynical cackle than a flicker of amusement. "You remember him, of course." He flipped a strand of blonde hair out of his eyes absently. "Even if you were gone that night, eh?"

The last was said with a sidelong glance that was anything but friendly. "Linel," Martin began, "I don't know what—"

"Anyway," the hacker drawled, flicking his gaze ahead of them and continuing as if Martin hadn't spoken at all, "Acer, in his infinite wisdom, canceled tonight's run. I think he was upset." Martin didn't miss the lilt of amused laughter running beneath his words. _You think you're so smart, don't you?_

"A shame," Martin said, matching Linel inch for inch of dry amusement while he suppressed the urge to throttle him. "It's good he has friends like you."

"Friend?" Linel bared his teeth in an approximation of a grin. "I doubt that he—"

Linel stopped short, and Martin stared at him. "What?"

"Near," Linel said tersely. Martin followed the blonde's tense gaze down the corridor, to the albino child who had just materialized, staring pointedly at the two of them.

"Ah."

"Linel," Near said, greeting them. "Martin."

"Hey," Linel said. "You noticed us. What a surprise."

Near just looked at him impassively. Martin felt a prickling on the back of his neck. What could he possibly _want_? Near never talked to them, or to anyone, for that matter. Ever. He left them alone, and they did the same—that was how it worked. Simple.

"I do have eyes," Near said, in the same flat tone that he always used. Martin stared at him, unsure of what expression was working its way across his face; had Near just made a stab at _sarcasm_…?

"You are proficient with computers, correct?" Near asked, looking at Linel. "Are you as good as Matt?"

Martin could practically see Linel's ego inflating as a cocky sneer-grin split his face. "That brat's not half as good as me."

"Good." Near's mouth creased in what Martin could only guess was a smile. "Come with me, then."

So _that_ was how it was going to be. Fine.

Smug bastards ruled this place, anyway. Wasn't that the rule? Whoever possessed the most arrogance won.

Martin watched as Near turned around and began walking away. Linel followed, swaggering, a jaunty smirk stamped over his entire existence.

Martin left. Obviously, he wasn't needed.

* * *

Matt opened the door to the library without bothering with his scanner. He knew the codes by heart, by this point; the algorithm that generated the daily password was wired into the gray crevasses of his brain. Inside, it was pitch-dark, lit only by the glow of emergency lighting and the flickering of screensavers on the computer banks. Matt flipped on one of the lights and set the dimmer on low, casting the massive room in half-shadowed gloam.

The computers sprang to life at his touch, the blue-and-green blaze of the default desktops casting ripples of color along the wood. He logged onto the center one and fished out the USB drive that forever hung around his neck. With a _snick_, it slipped into the port, and the usual dialogues popped up: open, display, take no action…

He clicked through the normal screens until he found it, buried beneath his security layers: his program. It was a simple executable file, no larger than a few hundred kilobytes, but more than enough for his purposes. Like a virus, it spread to the other computers in the bank, infesting them, calling up mini-displays on his screen like daffodils pushing through a well-groomed lawn. A few more clicks, and they vanished, replaced by his old desktop. To an untrained eye, it wouldn't have looked like anything unusual. Matt, however, knew that he now had the processing power of twenty desktop computers at his disposal.

It felt good.

Matt had been ghosting Mello for a while before L had returned. After spending a month or so with him, dodging curfews and nicking sweets, Matt had taken the initiative and had created a sort of skeleton-Mello. Skeleton-Mello little more than a sketch, a three-dimensional render that he used to speed up his ghosting, but it was more than enough for his programs to recognize the real thing. Matt opened Raven, calling up the displays of every video camera in the school. He plugged in skeleton-Mello's stats into the search field, hit another button, and _bam,_ twenty fans kicked in simultaneously as the computers began their search.

He settled back for just a moment, watching as the twenty computers churned with activity. A small dialogue box snapped up, displaying the approximate wait time…

Matt climbed out of his seat and sprinted to the other side of the room, where a second bank of computers was hidden behind a ten-foot tall shelf of books. He still had more work to do.

* * *

"What is this?" Linel demanded. Near simply looked placidly at him.

"My room."

It had been a bedroom once, perhaps, but no longer. Near's room was a riot of carefully organized wiring that might have rivaled Matt's, in size if not in disarray. Gone were the toys, the puzzles, the dominoes; in their place, Near had managed to set up a mesh of at least a dozen computers that covered the spare bed and spilled over onto the floor. Even his own bed was covered in printouts and precisely penned notes.

"Near," Linel said, slowly picking his way across the room to the spare bed, which looked to be the hub of the makeshift network, "what's all this _for_?"

Near just smiled again, the little half-moon that revealed absolutely nothing. He clasped his hands loosely behind his back. "I want you to find Mello for me."

"Find…" Linel was running his hands along the cords, seeking out the origins of a particularly thick blue one. "Why?"

Near's eyes followed him with clinical disinterest. "You are more than able of the task, I believe."

"Was that actually a compliment? The Great One never ceases to amaze with his benignity." The sarcasm fell away, and Linel gave him a considering look. "But why bother with it, I mean?"

"L," Near said simply. His irises glittered with the pale crust of ice. "Beyond that, it is none of your concern."

"Mm." Linel's fingers rested on what he had finally pinpointed as the keyboard of the central laptop. He had cleared off a small space for himself on the spare bed. "May I?"

"Of course."

"Password?"

Near told him. Linel's hand crawled nimbly along the keys like a diligent spider. "You don't have a roommate?"

Near nodded. He had crossed the room, shutting the door behind him, and now stood at Linel's back. Linel shook his head. "Figures. You're lucky, with the spare bed and all. Perks for L's little genius?"

"No."

"What, then?" Linel twisted around to meet Near's impassive gaze, curious. "Luck? Although—yeah, you used to have a roommate, right? Matt. I remember. That was back when he was in tenth, and Acer and I—"

"That's enough," Near said mildly. "I don't care about Matt." His voice wasn't—irritated, wasn't discomforted at all, but Linel arched an eyebrow nonetheless. Near had perfect control over his vocal cords, sure, but Linel was used to reading the kids at Wammy, and he had noticed the imperceptible stiffening of Near's spine. Hah. _Got you, Near._

"Course you don't," Linel returned cheerfully, turning his attention back to the laptop. "Now. What exactly is it you want me to do, eh?"

He could worm his way under Near's skin later. For now, he had found a new, better employ, and an employer who actually took him seriously. Things couldn't have been going better. Who would've thought that _he_ would end up working with the investigation? The others would be floored.

Oh, life was good indeed.

* * *

_In his dream, Mello's back arched as the rope snapped across his shoulders, biting through the thin cloth. He wondered vaguely if the whip would ruin the shirt; it seemed likely enough, after all, given everything that had happened. And then the ropes cracked again, this time across his chin, and it was Mihael who winced._

"_Recite."_

"_Two," he croaked, feeling the slick weight of blood sliding down his chin, "three. Five, and seven, and eleven." The numbers slid through his mind like sand through a sieve, and he bit his lip. "Thirteen. Seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three…twenty-nine, thirty-one…" He grimaced and continued, plowing through the first thirty primes as his brother towered over him, smirking. "…One hundred twenty-seven, one thirty-one, one thirty-nine—"_

"_Wrong," the voice sang out happily. "You got to thirty-one this time. Do you regret our bet now?" _

Damn.

_Andrew laughed. The whip—a vicious cat o' nine tails—lashed out against his skin again, but this time, Leo was the wielder. "Hey," he said, and lion's teeth clustered behind his lips. "Remember me? You were supposed to find him."_

"_Who?" Mihael asked, dizzy, primes still dancing on his tongue. "I don't know you—"_

"_Yeah," said Leo, "you do. And you've got to find _him_."_

"_But—"_

_The whip snapped._

And then it _was_ snapping, real and painful and _sharp_, and Mello bit back a yell as rope ripped the soft flesh of his throat. There was a snigger, and he felt the cold coursing of blood down his chin and throat and back. He strained backwards, against the chair, but it was no good: he was here, in the present, bound and blindfolded and stranded, without even Andrew's consistency to comfort him.

"Primes," the voice said, floating in the darkness. "That makes no sense whatsoever, you know. He said you were weird."

Mello spat in the general direction of the voice, and was rewarded with a disgusted yelp. "Brat," the voice said, and then pain snarled along the crest of his collarbone. "Hey, bet you never got this as a kid, eh?" A laugh. "What a lucky little bastard you were." The bitter sting of the whip lay across his shoulders, his arm, the curve of his cheek and neck; Mello pressed his eyes shut against the darkness of the blindfold, disassociating from the pain. _If only you knew_, he thought, silent. His fingers clenched behind him, fumbling uselessly at knots he already knew to be strong. God _damn_ it. It had been a flashback, a nightmare, though not quite. His two lives weren't supposed to touch, never, never…

The whip cracked again. It wasn't a cat o' nine, but it was rope all the same; he knew the weapon well enough, and he hated it almost as much as he hated primes right now.

"Lucky…" It was a hiss, a curse, and his assailant snapped the rope against his skin. "You had everything, I'll bet. You had a life, before you came here." Snap, and snap again; the whip whistled, whirling, a senseless battery that stung from humiliation as much as pain.

Mello closed his eyes as starbursts flecked the blindfold-induced darkness. The muscles in his jaw tightened, but he didn't flinch; _that_ particular pleasure was reserved for Andrew's eyes.

The whip retreated, and Mello felt his brow twitch in confusion. _What…?_

"Shades that are going round about speak truth," a voice murmured from behind him, abruptly. He heard a snick, like a door closing. "You _were _lucky, to have a life before this. My friend is jealous."

"But what avails it me," he croaked, smiling crookedly into the darkness despite the pain, "whose limbs are tied?" He recognized the voice—it wasn't the Drawler, but another familiar one. He had lost track after the first few, but this one—he was familiar. He was…tolerable.

"Very good. You're well-read." He heard footsteps, the vanishing of his assailant's presence—the newcomer must have signed to him. "Sorry to interrupt."

"It's fine," his former assailant said curtly. "I was almost done." A pair of fingers touched Mello's chin lightly before vanishing into the void. "See you later, _brat_."

The door opened again, and shut. The newcomer paced around until his voice sounded from in front of Mello. "I have some news for you," he said. "You're being moved."

Mello felt dizzy—the air smelled weird, suddenly. Between flashbacks and nightmares and _starvation_ and the pain in his bladder and the vicious bite of open wounds, he was less than at his best. "I—"

"I'm not here to listen to you." The words weren't hostile, just matter-of-fact. "Actually, I just wanted to get to you before my friend there made you faint from induced flashbacks and such, since then we wouldn't know when you'd wake up."

"Thanks for your concern."

The boy laughed at that, a sad, slow laugh. "Don't mention it."

"I wouldn't call myself lucky, you know. Not with company like you. You picked a good book to quote from."

A pause. "Yeah, well." There was a rustle. "Did he hurt you?"

"I'm _fine_."

"I'm glad." A pause, then: "Sorry about this."

"What?"

A damp, smothering cloth pressed itself across his nose.

Mello choked on the chemicals and swore, feeling the fresh wounds across his upper body splitting open as he thrashed in the chair. The cloth remained firmly pressed against his nose, cloaking, burning…

Not again.

Darkness opened out of darkness, and Andrew was already grinning at him.

* * *

Matt's fingers flew across three keyboards at once. It was a skill he had long since perfected, albeit with two keyboards, one per hand. Splitting his mind into three independent paths was simple; splitting his two hands in three directions, however, was a bit more difficult. He managed.

On one screen, L's desktop flickered with constant, clumsy action. Matt had hacked into L's system easily enough, not far enough that he could do any damage—he didn't the time or the ability for that—but far enough that he could see what the detective was doing. He had been disappointed. Searching for any ghosts was a decent idea, sure, but Matt had seen the flaw in that plan immediately: if the—kidnapper? Murderer?—hadn't bothered to ghost the cameras, or if he had figured out that Matt's code had been broken, L's search would yield absolutely nothing. It didn't matter, anyway—using his skeleton-render of Mello, the search algorithm was running quickly. He would have results soon.

On another screen, the security feeds hummed in a pulsing mosaic of activity. It was set to give him an alert if any people—students or otherwise—came near the library.

Those screens, however, weren't the ones Matt was controlling. One of his standard crawlers had turned up a gem.

Someone had been imitating his ghosting technique. He had known that already, and he had expected it to happen eventually. What he _hadn't_ expected was to catch someone in the act. More importantly, they were ghosting _Mello_.

It was a horrible job, knowing Mello's mannerisms as he did, but that wasn't the point. The point was that Matt was currently hunting the kid down like a terrier after a rat, and _damn_, it had been a long time since someone had given him a chase like this.

As soon as he hunted down their location on the network, he'd be able to figure out where they were—_who_ they were. And then he'd be able to find Mello.

Matt's breath escaped in a hiss as the unknown hacker threw up another layer of security. He disabled it with the leftmost keyboard almost without thinking, launching into an attack with the middle keyboard while the hacker tried to pull himself out of the camera system. He was so close to catching the creep that it _hurt_.

His right hand flew to the third keyboard and began typing a command sequence that would unleash one of his pet viruses. The drone of the computer fans was almost deafening; he was working them hard, so very hard, and he was inhaling processing power from every computer in the bank. His virus sprang into the network, and his unfocused eyes caught a glimpse of its progress report—it was in, tethered to the hacker's computer. He immediately stepped up his other attack with his left hand, willing the other's security system to ignore his virus. The other hacker cancelled one layer of his coding, then withdrew from the camera system, but it was too late—Matt had already gotten his virus out—he was going to _get_ this kid…

The third computer, the one displaying the virus's status, beeped at him in alarm. Matt's head swung around, his vision narrowing in on the alert message.

"Oh, _crap._"

VIRUS DETECTED, the third computer warned, and Matt's fingers flew to the other two computers, but not to the keyboards; he yanked the network cables out of his first computer precisely zero point two seconds before the others shut down in a snap of blackness.

Anger flared; his hands trembled. The computer on his far left was still alive and well, thanks to his removal of the network cables, but the other two were compromised. There was nothing else to be said. Unsteady fingers jammed the power button (stupid, _stupid_) and he watched as lights flared. The instant the computer began to boot up, he flipped off the power supply. Enough casualties for one day.

The first computer, the only safe one, hummed as he called up his virus report. It was dead. The other hacker hadn't let it pass unnoticed at all; he had just been too preoccupied with his own attack.

Matt felt his shoulder quaking. He propped his elbows up on the desk and fisted his hand in his hair, pulling; the sharp bite of pain drew him back to reality, if only for a moment. He had _failed_. Again. He had been close—so close, so very close, to getting Mello back, to catching the hacker, to catching the murderer, to making it all _finish…_

Far to his right, another computer beeped, the one that was monitoring the security feeds. He heaved himself out of his chair dully, slumping over to stare at the screen. _Don't tell me there's something else. God, if you exist, _please_, nothing else._

The screen stared at him. Another security alert?

Except…this one was in _reality_. Duh, Matt; you set that code up for a reason—

He stared at the video feed for all of one second, taking in the shadowed figure of a boy creeping along a hallway, and spun around. "_No._" A whisper, croaking out of his throat—not this, not now, not when he had just failed…(_again_, whispered a traitorous voice; _again…)_

The door to the library opened, and Matt's hand clenched spasmodically around the baton that lay open on the desk.

"Matt," Near called, and in that moment, Matt saw his day go from bad to horrible to absolutely apocalyptic.

"Near," he responded, wearily, and the albino's head jerked towards the back corner of the library, where Matt's current bank of computers was hidden. The soft padding of bare feet on carpet was almost lost beneath the whir of the computer fans.

He was so, so tired of this. All of it.

* * *

They were assembled in the spare classroom again, though there were less of them. They more or less formed Acer's elite: five sulking, cowed children, the eldest boy's supposed comrades. Martin closed his eyes while they waited, listening to the hum of his own breath, only to open them a few seconds later at the telltale _click_ of the door.

Acer walked in, his eyes hard. Martin's feet swung back and forth below the desk; in a moment, Acer would probably tell him to move, but that was fine. The bully was pissed off anyway. What did it matter what he did?

"Where's Linel?"

Silence, ripe and raw and _scared_, if nitrogen could sense Acer's murderous intent. Martin kept his gaze on the ground, debating with himself, then sighed. "He's with Near," he said dully. "Working on sommat. I don't know aught else."

Acer's voice grated like suppressed energy loaded behind a spring. "Is that so?"

Martin nodded, still not meeting Acer's eyes. "Interesting," was all the boy said, and then Martin felt the prickling at the back of his neck as Acer leveled his gaze at them.

"We have a traitor," he said, his voice smooth. "Not too unusual, eh?"

There was a low murmur that could have been mistaken for consent if one was determined to find meaning in nonsense. "I called the meeting because of this little problem," Acer continued. "Now. All of you. Speak up, if you care for your well-being, or for your _friends_." He spat the word. "Otherwise, don't expect me to pander to your cowardice, any of you. One chance, and that's it."

Silence.

Acer nodded. "I expected as much." He paused. "Martin."

Martin's eyes flicked up to meet the steel behind Acer's gaze. "Yeah?"

"Aren't you wondering why I haven't yelled at you for sitting on the desk? You know it usually bugs me."

Martin made as if to slide off the desk, but Acer held up a hand. "Don't."

"What?"

He couldn't help it, couldn't help the incredulous question from springing, traitorous, to his lips. Martin's hands dug into the sides of the desk. Acer was smiling.

"All of you." His eyes shone. "I don't want you in my pack any longer."

"What?" It was chorus this time, a whispered, broken croak that sprang from five throats at once. Acer shook his head, the smile gone.

"Don't act like you didn't see this coming." He turned around, walked to the door. His hand rested lightly on the doorknob. "The pack is gone, understand? Finished. I'm _done_." The emphasis was angry. "It's no longer advantageous."

Heads bobbed slowly, not that Acer could see. He left, closing the door behind him.

The silence returned, if only briefly.

Behind him, one of the boys—Kemp—shook his head. "What now?" he demanded, looking at each of them in turn. "The pack—"

"You heard Acer," Martin replied, still staring at the door. "It's finished."

One of the boys tried to speak, failed.

The world crumbled.


	20. Descent

Matt followed Near's careful passage with glittering disdain. The albino picked his way towards the second bank of computers delicately, mindful of the shelves erupting from the library floor at odd intervals. Matt felt a glimmer of smugness at the sight—after all, _he_ had been the one to rearrange everything. It paid to keep one's presence hidden, particularly when you were a tenth-place target.

When Near finally made it over to him, he took up an unobtrusive position standing a few feet away. Matt hated that—hated the mimicry of consideration, the façade of respect. He knew Near well enough to know that any respect the Wammy House leader had for him was entirely manipulative.

"Matt," Near said, wearily. "You're angry with me again."

"It's not the best of times," Matt said. The tart sarcasm _dared_ Near to deny the accusation. "But—I figure that I'm not angry unless I've got a _reason_ for it, you know?" His eyes sparked, challenging, but Near appeared immune, as always.

"I'm not aware of any merits to be gained from irritating you unnecessarily," Near said mildly. "I am, however, aware that you were just on the receiving end of a hacking attack—"

"Are you?" Matt repeated dryly. "Well, _great_." He stood up and strode towards the front of the library. Near followed him. "Unless that's _important_ in some way—"

"Oh, it is," Near replied. Matt turned around, hating himself for the flare of curiosity. "I hooked onto his system while he was busy disabling you." He held out his hand. A small loop of plastic was wrapped around his index finger, suspending a swaying flash drive. "If you want—"

"Give that to me," Matt said, taking it without bothering to hear the rest. He sprinted over to the first bank of computers—_those_ were safe, at least—and worked on unhooking one of them from his program network. Near followed at a more sedate pace. "Explain," Matt demanded, and Near's head bobbed solemnly.

"It's a simple program, I believe," he said, his soft voice almost drowned out by Matt's furious pecking at the keyboard. "When you log in, it ought to show you the host's location and other basic information."

"Password?"

Near gave it to him, and Matt watched as the program spread across the desktop. His brow creased. "Near."

"Yes?"

"I didn't know you were this good at coding. This is something approaching _my_ work."

Near inclined his head; Matt caught sight of his reflection in the monitor. "I have been known to posses intelligence, Matt."

Matt chewed on his lip, but he kept his expression carefully schooled. If Near wanted to pretend that this work was his—fine. It wasn't his business, anyway. It did sting, though: he had thought (wished) that Near possessed enough respect for him that he would at least avoid such an obvious _lie_. There was no way this was Near's work.

He clicked through a couple of screens, punched in a few basic commands, and watched as the data scrolled across the display: beautiful, pristine columns of unfiltered numbers. "Have you analyzed this?"

"Yes, actually." Near paused; Matt waited expectantly, but no answer was forthcoming.

"Well?"

Near merely reached up to toy with a strand of his pale hair. Matt twisted around in his seat, staring as Near's fingers curled and twined with the coarse, colorless strings, playing a silent, rolling melody that only he could hear.

"Are you going to tell me or not?" Matt demanded. "Or did you just come here to mock me, as usual?" His hands were trembling over the keys, shivering with constrained tension. "Mello's _missing_, in case you didn't notice, Near, and he's in _danger_. We don't have time for games."

Near's fingers continued their twisting, but at least he looked at Matt this time—and, more importantly, he _saw_ Matt. Matt knew all too well the curious blank gaze that Near gave so often, when his eyes turned inward and he acted for all the world like an autistic child. This time, Near was focused on reality, with an intensity that was entirely new.

"Near?" Matt asked again, impatient and more than a little furious. Trust Near to get lost in his own ever-so-perfect thought processes while Matt waited for the crucial piece of information that would lead them to Mello. The fierce, aching need for haste shuddered along his spine, and he glared. "Answer me, will you?"

Near finally found his voice. "I want you to analyze it," he said firmly.

"You want me to—what?"

"I do not wish to influence your results," Near said, and Matt scowled. "Please," he added, which was a new one—Near rarely asked for anything; he gave orders, and the world obeyed. "Just track the source."

_You'll make a fine L,_ Matt thought bitterly, but aloud, he said, "Fine." He turned back to the computer. "As soon as we find Mello, though, don't expect any thanks from me."

He sensed rather than saw Near's quiet shrug, but he ignored it. Near! Why was it that, even under the most strenuous, the most dangerous of circumstances, Near always had to put himself and his bloody games first? This was _not_ the time to be triple-checking every trivial detail, and Matt was nobody's dog.

It took him a moment to sift through the data—it was poorly organized, despite being so comprehensive—but it only took him a few (_precious, precious_) minutes. Matt's program chirped, and he punched in a string numbers, the hacker's address. The computer's fan whirred—it would take a moment to sift through the layers of encryption and compare the final result to all the of the computers listed on the network, but only a moment.

The result flashed on the screen, and Matt's jaw tensed.

"Yes," Near breathed in his ear. "He was right."

* * *

Mello woke up.

The first thing he was aware of was a vicious, burning pain searing his eyes, and he snapped them shut with what his reflexes had intended to be a howl of pain. Instead, he found himself tasting the coarse fibers of a gag, and he was left with a stinging fire smoldering behind his closed eyelids.

"Calm down," a now-familiar voice hissed, distorted with static. "Sorry."

_Sorry?_

Mello cracked his eyes open one at a time, clamping down on the pain that shot down his optical nerve like splintering glass while he waited for his eyes to adjust. They did, ever so slowly, and he squinted in the dim light, disoriented at the sudden return of his vision.

How many hours had they had him by now?

It was actually dim in the room; his eyes, unused to sight after a day of blindfolded captivity, had overreacted to the ill-tempered glow emanating from the industrial lighting in what he now recognized as a gutted closet. He had been lying on the floor; now, he rolled into a sitting position, wincing as the movement brought on a fresh wave of protests from his stiff joints. The pain in his eyes was replaced with a dull, throbbing pain in the back of his head, and Mello was reminded abruptly of the sensation of a damp cloth against his nose. Well, damn.

His skin stung, too, and on looking down, Mello saw it: a latticework of thin, dark lines, seeping through his shirt like some sort of hellish highway system. Surprisingly enough, his hands were unbound; he reached up for the gag and untied it, grimacing as the bland sensation of fiber was replaced a sour taste, probably courtesy of the drugged cloth.

"What gives?" he demanded, directing his question to the wireless radio resting by the door of the closet in a voice that was far more confident than he felt. He flexed his hands experimentally, feeling the dull pressure of blood coursing anew through his fingers. "I think you owe me an explanation."

The voice on the other end hesitated before answering. "I think not."

"I think so." Mello rose to his feet—or tried to; his legs quaked, and he slumped against the wall, willing his muscles to respond. He cleared his throat. "You lot really don't know a thing about logic, do you?" He slowly made his way over to the door, using the wall as a support. "Why was I moved?"

"You're not very grateful," the voice observed. "You're unbound now."

"Yes, I realized that," Mello remarked dryly. "I'm just concerned with the _why_. There's no logical reason—"

"You're not _supposed_ to be unbound," the voice interrupted, and Mello's mouth snapped shut.

_Well._

He crouched down and picked up the radio, examining it. "Do you have a camera in here?"

No answer. Mello set the radio back down. "You disobeyed someone's orders."

"Thoughtcrime," the voice intoned, "does not entail death. Thoughtcrime _is_ death."

"This isn't Oceania."

"Or is it?" A whisper of static rushed through the speakers—a sigh, the universal sign of human weariness carried through electricity and empathy. "Look, you can't get out of there, so it's not like I've done you a huge favor."

"I can't?" Mello set the radio down. "Well, that's such a pity. I expected as much."

"Yes," the boy's voice said dully, and they lapsed into silence.

Mello rocked back on his heels and closed his eyes. His thoughts throbbed sluggishly with the beat of blood. None of this made sense, but then, he had expected as much; if anything, now that the blindfold was off, the truth had been obscured rather than revealed.

Mello was suddenly struck by exactly how _tired_ he felt. This is what they were trying to do, he thought. This is what they intended with the hours of sleep and interrogation, questioning and brutality; this is what they were trying to achieve by inhibiting my senses and constantly rotating the guards. Even now, they're doing it—disorienting me by switching the rules, taking away any sense of certainty. I'm _done_ playing this game. If they think I'm going to sit here tamely—well. I'm _not_.

He unfolded his stiff limbs and hobbled over to the door. Upon a closer examination, his suspicions were confirmed: it was bolted from the outside with a crude deadbolt. Mello spun the doorknob experimentally. It turned easily enough in his hand, though it wasn't about to do him any good with the damned deadbolt on the other side.

"So," he said, addressing the radio in the corner again, "Why was I moved?"

The boy on the other end hesitated. "I…"

"I thought you said you already committed the thoughtcrime."

Mello didn't look at the radio as he spoke. He knew full well that his expression was none too trustworthy—he _needed_ this stranger's help. There was only room for rational thought; anything resembling empathy or revealing desperation had to be tamped down and controlled. This stranger would make a highly ideal ally, and if he deigned to help Mello, his situation would probably be a good deal less tenuous. Mello's mind was consumed with the raw objectivity of cold analysis. Mihael the boy had never been buried more thoroughly.

His statement was a simple one. If thoughtcrime is death, then you've already committed the criminal act; beyond that, you've untied me. You've got nothing left to lose.

_This isn't Oceania._

Oh, Mello loved Orwell, he really did.

"Maybe," the boy said at last. "But I can dodge the Thought Police successfully for a while. Give me some credit."

_No._

Mello fought to keep his face schooled and calm. Apathetic masks weren't his forte; that particular skill was Matt's domain, not his. He never had been a good liar, but he wasn't suicidal, either—in the absence of apathy, he switched to the subtle irony of sarcasm. "How am I supposed to know whether or not to give you credit if I don't even know your name?"

"Call me Virgil," the boy said, so softly it was almost a whisper of hissed static, and Mello forced down a smile.

Wherefore I think and deem it for thy best that thou follow me, and I will be thy guide, and will lead thee hence through the eternal place…

"First Orwell, and now Dante," he observed. "You have a way of choosing depressing books."

The radio crackled with the faint static of laughter. "Well," the boy—_Virgil_—said. "I'm glad you caught the reference. I don't have much love for poetry, but the Comedy is one of the few things I consistently enjoy."

Virgil, the guide; Virgil, the helper. Mello's mind calculated the myriad of meanings immediately, churning through the possibilities. It was a false name for a false name, obviously, so the symbolism behind it was probably rather revealing. All chosen names were decided upon for a _reason_. Dante's Virgil was widely viewed as the personification of human reason. Beyond that, he was Dante's guide through Hell, his companion, his mentor, and, paradoxically enough, a damned soul—Christ's salvation had come too late for the long-dead poet. To take such a name denoted a perverse sense of humility mingled with egotism—and, furthermore, a Wammy House kid just wouldn't normally _do_ something like that. It was too…delicate. Poetic. Pretty words were worthless in the face of brutality.

_Then why,_ Mello wondered, _are you on _their _side?_

Something was off. He didn't know what, but it was there—and it didn't feel good. But, still, his mind reminded him, still: an ally…

He felt dizzy. _Not surprising, _a snide voice whispered in his head. _You've had a _wonderful_ day, after all_. "Virgil it is, then," Mello said aloud, and he could _hear_ the other boy's amiable smile in the electric hum of the radio.

* * *

_I knew it, I knew it, I knew it_—

Vindication, how sweet, how belated. The words hovered in the air, blurring into hazy strands of floating text, and Matt forced himself to blink, to refocus his sight on the glowing monitor.

Computer A.kt.29.o.8 connected at instance Dorm Room 73. Instance assigned to Acer ((11)) and Bodkin ((19)).

"Acer," he said, tasting the name, marveling in it. "Acer. The bastard, he was flat-out lying—"

"No," Near said, "I do not believe he was."

"And what would _you_ know, Near?" Matt turned in his chair and glared at Near's impassivity. "You didn't even come with me when I was talking to Acer—"

"I had better things to do," Near replied evenly. "As you would undoubtedly notice, if only you looked at this objectively."

"Objectively!" Matt rose to his feet, tired of seeing Near looking down at him. The space between them vanished into tense air; out of his seat, Matt stood nose-to-nose with the impassive albino. "Objectively! Near, if you recall—"

"I recall," Near interrupted him, tensing at the sudden invasion of his personal space, "that it was _you_ who used to extol the virtues of apathy. What happened to that notion?"

"Near, I think that _apathy_ is the least of my concerns right now."

"It would seem," Near said, quietly, "that as soon as you discovered your little foundling, you decided to throw apathy out the window. I expected better."

"Who gave you the right to expect _anything_ from me?" Matt demanded. "I thought you forfeited that right when you fucking _left me for Acer_ and locked me out of our room that night. I'm not your bloody _friend_, Near."

"I—"

"Shut up," Matt hissed, his breath blowing hot across Near's face. The younger boy refused to flinch. "Shut _up_. How do you think I _felt_, Near? Eleven o'clock at night, monitors strolling my normal places, Acer and his pack waiting for me, and you locked me out! All because _I beat you _that day at one of your goddamned _puzzles_! Don't think it's a bit _petty_ that you couldn't bear to be bested by poor, tenth-place little Matthais?"

"That," Near replied, "was _not_ my reason for locking you out."

"Then what _was _it!" Matt was shouting now, all semblance of control gone; too long he had hid behind a wall of sardonic, lazy apathy and unconcern; it had been too long since Near had actually looked at him and _saw._ "_Tell me._"

Near's eyes remained unchanged—distant, unfocused, cold, the pupils never wavering from Matt's face. "It worked, did it not?"

"It…"

Near turned around and walked away, leaving Matt trembling with pent-up rage and anticlimactic dismissal. "It worked," Near repeated, his back to Matt. He closed his eyes. "Follow me, please. I have something I wish to show you."

And Matt—Matt just stood there, mind blank as a newly minted slate, and he _stared_.

* * *

Kemp and Martin made for their rooms.

It was long past curfew, but it had been a long time since of Acer's pack had actually obeyed the rules. Hell, it had been a while since anyone had obeyed the rules except for the cowed outcast-victims, who were always anxious to lock themselves in and disappear. Except—Acer's pack was gone now, and they were just two more kids in a school that was that much more dangerous.

"Who's left?" Martin asked abruptly. Beside him, Kemp quirked an eyebrow.

"Come again?"

"Who's left?" Martin repeated, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Of the packs, I mean, now that we're…"

"Defunct," Kemp finished. "We got into a scrap with Fallow last week, remember? He's got, like, five kids. And Peter's got a good half-dozen, and there's Scry, and Blinder. But beyond that, it's all upper-classmen. There's only…what? Forty, fifty kids in our age-range, and the girls tend to be classified as non-threats—"

"Except for Seven and Lily."

"Yeah. Them."

They lapsed into silence again. When they got to the fork in the halls, Kemp split off for his own room, and Martin kept walking. Walking, walking, always walking—passing through life, slowly, unhurried. That was just the way of it. Life was crumbling—Wammy House was breaking apart at the seams, anyone could see that—but Martin, he kept walking, and he kept thinking. Acer had liked that about him. Martin never lost his head. Maybe life was just too boring to fully engage his attention.

Wammy House _was_ breaking, Martin reflected. First there had been Mello's entrance, tipping the scales with the addition of an outsider. And then there was Leo's death. That alone would have upset the balance of power for days, weeks, months; everyone had immediately risen on their toes, wary of the new declaration of danger by some anonymous hothead. And then Matt had come under suspicion—news of _that_ had trickled down quickly enough. It was this latest development, though, that had Martin most worried. The disbanding of the pack—what did it mean for all of them?

Martin reached his room and closed the door gently behind him, so as not to disturb the dark mound curled on the far bed. In history, they had learned about feudalism and the Age of Absolutism and the gradual change to democracy and Locke's social contract. The social contract of Wammy was the Strong protecting the Weak, the Leader protecting the Subjects. But what would happen if the Weak banded together in the absence of their Leader—and _survived?_

Oh, Acer, Martin thought with a faint mental sigh. You've done it now. I don't know why you've done it, but you have. I'm just an outsider looking in at all of this, but I'm not blind. No King cedes his power willingly. What _happened?_

Martin heard a noise—the faint murmur of voices, a sound not unusual in and of itself. The peculiarity came from the pitch. The voices were deeper, softer than the relatively high-tuned muttering of children. He frowned and slid to the ground next to the door, matching his breathing to his sleeping roommate's. The voices rose and fell with the gentle lilting of conversation, and Martin's brain finally supplied an identity to match with one of the voices:

L.

Martin leaned his head against the wall.

* * *

"I must confess, Wammy," L remarked, gnawing thoughtfully on his lip, "I'm anxious."

"We're going to find him. You don't need to worry about _that_, at least. I have men coming in as soon as morning dawns, at the latest." Wammy shook his head and quickened his stately gait to keep pace with the detective. "I would be a poor Watari indeed if I was unable to do that much."

"It's not finding him I'm worried about," L retorted mildly, ignoring his companion's discomfort at the brisk pace. "I'm concerned with his captors' reasoning."

"Go on."

"There is no discernible purpose to be garnered from capturing Mello. This is not a situation where ransom is remotely applicable. If they had wished to murder him, they would already have done so. What, then, is their goal?"

Wammy shrugged. "Is it important?"

L actually stopped at that, for dramatic effect as much as anything else, forcing Wammy to turn to face him. "Wammy."

"Yes?"

The old man's gaze was as impassive as ever, but L wasn't fooled. "You are withholding information from me."

It wasn't an accusation; rather, it was a simple statement of what L perceived as truth. Wammy shook his head. "Ask me any question, L, and I shall answer, as always."

"None of this makes sense," L mused aloud. "Not in a conventional manner, at any rate. But then—you raise Wammy House children to be abnormal, do you not?"

Wammy's eyes glowed with the peculiar, sky-bright warmth that so rarely lit the icy irises. "Of course."

L made a noncommittal noise in his throat. "This cannot be allowed to happen again, Wammy."

"What do you propose?"

"Oh, a radical overthrow of the old system," L murmured, his dark eyes unfocused. His pace increased still further. "A dismantling of the old ways that you have so carefully constructed, Wammy. I expect you will be most displeased with me."

"It is not my place to say."

"No," L agreed, "it is not. That will not, however, keep you from expressing your thoughts."

"You know me too well."

L's crooked back bent still farther as he gazed moodily down the hall. "Yes, well." The thumb slipped between his teeth and L clamped down around it. "Think on this, Wammy: no student of this building ever acts without reason, rational or otherwise. I am quite aware of the fact that you know this—and I know it, as well."

"L," Wammy said, "it will pass."

L shook his head. "Matt was right," he murmured. And then: "Watari."

Quilish Wammy raised his eyebrows at the address. "Yes, L?"

"I have some new orders for your men. Tomorrow, when they arrive..."

* * *

Martin's eyes flew open.

He had heard—half of the conversation, perhaps, if that. But he had heard L's last words, and those words—

Martin waited until they were absolutely _gone_, counting thirty heartbeats after the last echo of their murmuring had faded from his ears, and then he rose, twisted the doorknob, and left—silent as a wraith and burning with its demonic fire, because now, Martin _knew_.

"Reasoning and motivation," he whispered as he crawled along the darkened hallways, darting in and out of camera blindspots and racking his brain frantically for the known haunts of a certain boy. "Of _course_."

No Wammy Child ever did anything without a reason.

* * *

So, there it is, folks: a short, choppy, none-too coherent chapter for everyone to mull over while I work on getting my brain back in gear. It's not my favorite chapter, but...it'll do. I hope it's decent. You know, when I was doing NaNoWriMo way back when, one of the (published) authors on the forums remarked, "I think chapter breaks are more for the author than for the reader. I mean, they let us be lazy and declare that we're done for the day..."

Yay.

Farewell for now. **Reviews are loved, loved, loved**...and I very much expect us to hit 200 reviews this time. Isn't that _amazing_? I feel fantastical.

Fly

April 19th, 2008, 12:14 PM


	21. Convergence

**AN:** Yes, yes, evil delays, I know! And cliffies galore. My apologies. I don't handle stress well, you see, and in the future, I have (deep breath) a History test tomorrow, a Band test Friday, the SATs Saturday, my first day back at work on Sunday, a band _concert_ on Tuesday night, and the AP Calculus exam Wednesday morning. exhales Phew. So, yeah. Free time nonexistent right now. ACK!

I do hope this chapter is...passable. I _completely_ forgot about Martin's last scene in Chap20 and almost didn't include him in this one! 0.0 That would have been...a mistake. GACKT. So, yeah. Yell at me if this is bad.

Other than that--enjoy!

* * *

Near wasn't surprised when Matt stayed behind

Near left the library without waiting for Matt to follow. He would come, or he wouldn't; he would consider the lure of information more important than his newly rekindled loathing, or he wouldn't. It wasn't any of Near's business.

Even if the loathing was partially deserved.

Near heard the soft padding of feet behind him, but he didn't turn around to acknowledge the gamer. Hatred, stifled and stiff, radiated against the exposed skin of his neck like a prickling firestorm, rippling from Matt's unseen form in waves of antipathy.

"If you're going to follow," he said aloud, addressing the empty hallway ahead, "you could put up a pretense of civility."

"Funny," Matt said from behind him. "For all _you_ know, I could have my baton out right now."

Near heard it, then: the soft whistle of metal through the air, the sound of a baton being tossed lazily from hand to hand while Matt kept pace behind him. So that was it, was it?

"I thought that Mello was your first priority," Near replied, keeping his voice clipped.

"Yeah," Matt said, still spinning the baton. "He is. I do have a question, though."

Near paused. "Very well."

"If Mello's my motivation—what's yours?"

Near bit his tongue, catching the words before they spilled past his lips like so many kite strings sliding from the grasp of a weak-handed child and soaring unfettered into the open air. Behind him, Matt laughed, low and mocking and feral.

"So," Matt said, "now that we've agreed that you're not the Infallible One, what's this information you want me to see?"

* * *

Ringer was bored.

First, he had tried reciting the Fibonacci numbers in his head. That had failed miserably. Next had come the powers of two, which were just plain _dull_; after that, he had tried reciting Poe's _Raven_. Nothing had kept his mind occupied for more than five minutes.

Ringer looked at the mirrored glass across from him, meeting the gaze of his bruised-eyed doppelganger. "Hey," he said.

Behind the mirror, almost so faint he couldn't see it, a shadow flickered.

Ringer sighed and cracked his neck. It hurt.

"I know you can hear me."

Still no response.

"Look," he said, flexing his hands experimentally against the restraints. "L's in a bad mood. I get that, all right? I just want to get out of here. Meet up with my cousin. Get some McDonald's. Stretch my legs. Get out of your hair."

Silence—but they were listening. Probably. Hopefully.

Ringer pasted a weary smile on his face.

* * *

Linel crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against the wall of Near's bedroom. His toes drummed impatiently on Near's bedspread, spelling out his notes from World History in Morse code. On the screen, his program continued churning out a list of primes, number after gargantuan number, each a candidate for his encryption scheme. It would have been faster to find a list from the internet, perhaps, but the last thing he needed was for his history logs to show his possible keys.

He was halfway through toe-tapping his notes on the Aztecs when the door opened. "Oi," Linel said. "Near. Glad to have you—"

The "back" died on his lips when a surly redhead crossed the threshold. His jade gaze matched Linel's, first widening in a faint moment of surprise, then flattening out into the dull, dim curtain of his customary mask.

"Matt," Linel said. "Well, hey. Long time, no see."

Matt crossed the room to perch on the spare bed, warily examining Linel while Near shut the door behind them. He looked at Linel down his nose, his face smooth and disinterested, as if this was just one more annoyance he had to put up with. "I seem to have lost your name," he said coolly. "One of Acer's, aren't you?"

"Linel, actually."

So this was it? First Acer, now Near—did _everyone_ think Matt was better than him? Hadn't he done exactly what Near asked?

Well. This latest development was doing very little for his mood.

"Linel has been assisting me for the past few hours," Near explained. "He wrote the code from earlier."

"I should have figured," Matt said to Near. "You were never fast enough to code on your own." He looked back at Linel, boredom still drenching his movements. "You did a decent job."

Linel scowled. "Did I?" He closed his programs and shifted his laptop off his knees. "I bask in your compliments."

Matt snorted. "Nice to know I'm among friends. Do you enjoy working for manipulative bastards?"

Near simply looked at Matt, his pale eyes as flat and unreadable as a mirrored disk. "Linel, please leave us for a few minutes. I appreciate your work, but Matt and I have things to discuss."

Anger, sweet and dark and thick, coiled through Linel's stomach. "Dismissing me, Near?" he inquired, keeping his tone light, jesting. His gaze flicked across the room, bouncing from Near to Matt to Near again.

Near saw through his false humor. "Temporarily, yes," he said. "I apologize."

Linel jabbed the power button on the laptop and rose fluidly to his feet. "Ah," he said. "Well. I wouldn't want to interrupt your little _spat_." He crossed the room to stand over Matt, who was still perched on the spare bed. "Quite comfortable here, aren't you?"

"This used to be my bed," Matt said, looking up at him with calculated torpidity. "I ought to be."

Linel's eyebrows climbed. "Oh," he said. "I remember now. It's been so long since I've had a pack to my name. Poor Matthais never could assimilate. We used to come by here, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Matt said woodenly. "You _did_ have a pack. Isn't it funny how things change?"

Linel crooked a bitter grin and flipped him a mocking salute. "Well," he said. "All's well that ends well. I suppose I'm leaving now." He nodded to Near on his way out, a sneer twisting across his lips. "Later."

It was only after the door closed behind him that Linel realized that his salute had been exactly the same one he normally paid Acer.

* * *

And then there was silence.

Matt closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels, leaning his head against the wall.

"Well," he said aloud, "can we get back to business now?"

Near—Near slipped his fingers into his hair, and he _pulled_.

"Yes," he said mechanically, working the muscles of his jaw and tongue with the detachment of a deft puppeteer manipulating his subjects. "I suppose so."

* * *

Mello's fingers pressed against the wood, exploring the grain, touching, testing, and moving on, each time disappointed at having his suspicions confirmed. Above him, the yellow light of the dull bulb burned in a synchronized buzz with the now-dormant radio, creating a dissonant chord of humming static. His throat burned, along with his eyes; his stomach was far past sensation, having already degenerated into an aching swathe of muscle.

Mello had never quite craved chocolate as much as he did right now.

He finished his examination of the door and slumped back to the ground. The grain was nearly flawless, speckled with tiny variations but no major flaws. If he wanted to split the doorknob off the door, it would be difficult. That being said, he didn't have all that many options.

"Virgil," he said aloud.

There was no answer. Mello had already guessed that the other boy had left his post on the other end of the radio, but he hadn't wanted to take a chance. He eased himself down onto his back, pressing the crest of his head against the drywall next to the door. His eyes slipped shut as his focus turned towards his other senses, and his breathing slowed, finally dropping into silent torpidity.

There was no noise.

Mello waited, counting the time in even, measured breaths, waiting until a good five minutes had passed. There was nothing—not a rustling of cloth, not the quiet creak of shifting bone. He was alone.

Where _was_ he?

The important bit was that he was alone. The rest of it could wait until he escaped. Mello had long since decided that he was no fucking damsel in distress. Virgil had probably guessed what he would do, which made the gesture of leaving him untied all the more significant. Mello had the feeling that unless he escaped and they caught up with the murderer, Virgil would end up resembling a butcher's wares instead of a human child.

Who was he kidding? None of them resembled _children_. Virgil—or whatever his name really was—would deal with the consequences of his own actions. It wasn't Mello's problem.

Mello opened his eyes and quietly drew himself back up to his feet, wincing at the throbbing sensation behind his eyes. It would be best to do this quickly—he didn't know how fast he'd be able to run in his current state, and what he had planned definitely ranked as "loud."

Mello drew back his fist, and for the first time in too long, he found himself grinning.

* * *

Near crossed the room and shifted the careful network of wiring that pooled across his sheets. He motioned to Matt. "Come here, please."

Matt obliged, his mask of apathy tight and seamless, and Near turned his attention to his laptop. They were a perfect match, the two of them, equally mistrusting, each bound behind his own walls, pummeled by the callous hands of outside forces into misshapen husks that bore more in common with machines than with their human origins.

Some systems were too perfect.

Except…things were different now, weren't they? Self-preservation, academic pursuit, competition—the old motivations had ultimately been combined into the animalistic brutality that had led to this debacle.

_You can't expect a boy to be vicious until he's been to a good school._

Absurd, random quotes, floating to the surface of his mind like so much unnecessary flotsam. Near pushed his concerns aside and locked himself back in place, back into his mask and into their careful play, their carefully sculpted world.

Even if it was crumbling around his ears.

Matt watched as Near drew up an interface he had never seen before, the interface that Near had asked Linel to design. "Near," he said, "why did you grab Linel?"

Near's fingers crawled across the keyboard, punching in the commands slowly, unaccustomed to Linel's design. "I needed him."

"Do you trust him?"

At that, Near just turned his head and _looked_ at Matt, his clear eyes quietly resentful. "I do not." The condescending _of course_ lingered in the air between them, unspoken but very real nonetheless. "Do you?"

Matt snorted. "No. Actually, about it being Acer who was coding that Mello-ghost…"

"Yes?"

"I seriously doubt it was him."

Near's mouth twitched. "No," he said. "It was not. It was Linel."

Near didn't watch as Matt digested this newest piece of information, but he already knew what his onetime roommate was doing. It was highly probable that Matt's mask was completely flawless, molded to perfection, not betraying an inkling of the fact that he probably wanted to strangle Near.

"Ah," Matt said, and he turned his attention back to Near's typing. "What is that interface, by the way?"

"Something Linel designed," he replied. "He is not aware of what it actually does, of course. I merely told him which system values to use. At present, it churns out numerical data, and little else." His hands stilled on the keyboard. "Do you still posses your old encryption scheme?"

"My old…" Matt's hand reached up and touched the thin lanyard around his neck. He stared at Near. "Why?"

Near closed his eyes. "I used my key to encrypt it," he said. "Of course, you were the one who had the actual _de_cryption program, so there was no way for Linel to access the information, even if he hacked into my system while I was away."

Matt pulled the lanyard off his neck and handed it to Near. "You didn't know I would keep it."

"No," Near agreed, taking it from him. "I had no guarantee."

"That was…years ago."

"Yes."

A slow smile curled across Matt's face, the first genuine fracture in his mask Near had seen in a long time. He shook his head, blood-dull bangs flipping across his eyes. "What's it for, anyway?"

Near smiled. "I have a…hunch, to use an irritatingly casual word."

"A hunch?"

"Do you remember the folders Wammy gave us, originally, with all of the access information?"

Matt nodded and leaned against the wall. Near turned his attention back to the screen, bringing up Matt's old program. "It allows us to see where adults have individually interfered with the system, once we put together a simple program. I did not have the expertise—"

"But Linel did."

"Yes." Near resumed typing. "I believe that my program is finished running."

Matt frowned. "Which one?"

"Don't you remember? The one from…oh, some time ago. The one that searched for all the ghosts within that certain time frame on the night of Leo's murder. The one that was supposed to find the murderer, without any room for doubt."

The jade gaze remained just as locked as ever, but Near caught the thoughtful lilt to the other boy's voice. "The one you used to break my code…"

"It has finished," Near said. "I believe it _should_ have finished, given the elapsed time and L's network, but nobody has been alerted."

Matt studied at him, gears churning behind his critical gaze. "You're sure?"

Near nodded towards the laptop, and Matt watched as the raw rows of numbers flashed across the screen, slowly transforming into strings of actual words. "I will be," he said. "This program has also fetched back the results of my previous one. But—consider this, Matt. The murderer has extensive computer expertise. Furthermore, we are not simply dealing with _a_ murderer; they must have an extensive network within the student body, but I do not believe that all the members of said network are aware of the ultimate puppeteer. To pull off kidnapping Mello serves very little obvious purpose, and required a concerted effort on the part of many parties." Near shook his head. "This entire case is an exercise in exceptional behaviors."

"Linel is probably involved?"

"Linel serves his own purposes," Near returned. "Of course…"

"…The benefits to him aren't particularly high," Matt murmured. "He would need some significant motivation, and I don't think he's particularly bright."

"His coding ability is comparable to yours."

"Near," Matt said, bitter acid flowing beneath the amiable river of his words, "if intelligence was based on sheer ability to code, we'd all be slaves to computers right now."

Near shrugged and drew his knee to his chest, propping his chin against the knobby curve of bone. "Perhaps."

Matt rose to his feet. "Do you need me here or not?"

His old roommate looked up sharply. "Why?"

"It sounds like you don't, then." Matt shoved his hands in his pockets. "I'm leaving. Look, you can do all of the mechanical stuff if you want, and this program of yours—Linel's, actually—will find the murderer just fine, but I still have to find Mello."

Near's eyes narrowed. "Do you intend to search for him blindly?"

"Near," Matt said, "leave my own abilities to me. However little you think of me—I think you still ought to understand that I'm perfectly _capable._"

The albino's fingers drifted from the keyboard into his hair, twisting absently. "Fine," he said.

"Fine," Matt repeated.

He left.

* * *

Mello's fist collided with the drywall.

It splintered around his knuckles, exploding into fine white dust and biting into the spreading web of crimson that seeped across his hand. He grimaced and pulled it back again, ignoring the pain, and struck at the same spot, pounding the cracked indent further still away from him. He didn't have too much time. Even if Virgil was his—friend? ally?—the sound of breaking drywall would definitely bring _someone_ running.

Mello cursed and struck at the wall again, breaking past the first layer and through to the guts of the building, the hollow latticework of supporting frames. One of the inner beams had snapped; he latched onto it and wrenched it away from its brethren with a snarl. Newfound club in hand, Mello attacked the interior of the outside drywall, grinning in satisfaction when the beam broke through. He dropped the wood and thrust his arm through the narrow opening, forcing the fractured wall to accommodate him. Dimly, he heard a shout, but the whereabouts of its source was a matter of small concern at present.

He rammed his shoulder against the wall of the closet, forcing as much of his arm through the narrow hole as he could as the jagged edges bit into his bared skin. His hand twisted, wrenching his shoulder in its socket, and his fingers scrabbled blindly for purchase on the other side. Finally, he found it—_there_—and with a sharp _snick_, he rammed the deadbolt away from the door.

Mello withdrew his arm, shirtsleeve in tatters, and he shoved the now-unlocked door open with a victorious push. He hadn't been mistaken about the shout earlier—someone was coming, feet pounding loudly against the tiled floor of—

Of wherever he was. Mello swore again and took off in a random direction, praying that he was heading towards the main hallway and cursing his disorientation.

All the same, he couldn't quite quench the soaring roar in his ears, and the blood raining steadily from his bleeding knuckles didn't really matter, because it just wasn't _real_, and Mello—

Mello was _back_.

* * *

Linel didn't wait for Near to summon him back like an errant cur. It was long past curfew, anyway—surely the kid would understand that Linel wasn't quite so loyal as to risk his neck. Either way, Linel didn't care.

Didn't care, couldn't care, because his watch had just started humming, and Linel had bigger things to deal with than a spat between Wammy House's two prodigies. He kept a languid pace, strolling through the deserted hallways as if he was still Acer's loyal sidekick, unafraid of adults and adolescents alike. The events of the world would wait; they were pressing, sure, but he couldn't afford to be stopped.

Linel's watch picked up speed, buzzing impatiently against his skin. He swatted at it impatiently. Damn Kemp and his hardwiring; he had _told_ the moron to place a cap on it. He really needed to get his hands on a decent manual.

He rounded a corner, still fumbling with his watch, when a familiar voice jerked him back to reality.

"Hey."

Linel stopped and looked up, meeting the amber eyes of one of his packmates with mounting irritation.

He did _not _have time for this.

"Hey, Martin," he said, plastering on a clown's waxen smile. "What's up?"

The other boy was leaning against the wall, hands carefully crossed behind his back. "Talk to me? I'll walk with you."

"Yeah, sure."

Martin fell in step with him as he continued down the hall. His presence was quietly amiable, as usual; Martin had never been an adversarial companion, which, to Linel's eyes, marked him as weak. Linel was beginning to get annoyed. For someone who had claimed to want a conversation, Martin was being rather taciturn, and to all appearances, he was content to leave the silence alone.

"Well?" Linel asked. If Martin heard the impatient strain in his voice, he didn't let it show.

"Sorry," he said mildly. "I just…had a couple of questions for you."

Linel shrugged. "Go ahead, then."

"Why do you run with Acer?"

Linel blinked at that, thrown off guard. "What?"

Martin tipped his head to the ceiling as they walked, examining the fluorescent gleam of the lighting as it slid slowly above their heads. "Please?"

"Same as you, I guess," Linel said, irritation clear in his voice now. He didn't have _time_ for this game. "I mean—why does anyone?"

"That's a non-answer, Linel." Martin smiled. "Come on. It's a simple question."

"I really don't—"

Martin nodded thoughtfully and interrupted him. "Next question, then. If you had the opportunity to overthrow Acer—would you?"

Linel's mouth opened, but Martin cut him off again. "I don't care enough for Acer's reign to be spying for him, you know." He laughed, bright and clear, and Linel's watched hummed again, reminding him that this was taking too _long_. "I was just curious."

"Well, yeah." Linel sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, upsetting the dark locks and sending them spilling across his vision. "I want to _win_, Martin." He offered the other boy a lopsided and entirely fake grin of his own. "I don't like being Acer's lapdog one whit, and I'm entirely replaceable."

Martin grinned. "Fair enough. You want to be L?"

Linel shook his head. "L has nothing to do with it. I just…" He hesitated, fumbling for the right words that would end the conversation. "I want to win. That's all."

"I think we have a Machiavelli on our hands," Martin remarked to the ceiling. He turned back to Linel. "Am I right?"

"Machiavelli was a genius," Linel said. "You flatter me."

"Oh, I don't know." Martin raised a hand in an abrupt wave. "Anyway. I need to get back to my room. Curfew and all."

"Like that matters," Linel said. "We're Acer's."

"Not anymore. Acer disbanded the pack, by the way." Martin grinned again and turned around. "See you."

"Wait—what?"

Martin was already gone, and the last piece of information he had casually tossed away was so distracting that Linel didn't even bother to wonder as to Martin's intentions.

And then, of course, his watch shivered again, and Linel took off at a full-fledged sprint.

* * *

Ringer had shut up when it had become obvious that whoever was on the other side of the one-way glass wasn't going to let him out. He waited a while, still chanting fragments of facts in his head, and then—

"Hey," he called, infusing his tone with as much of a juvenile whine as possible. "I need to take a leak."

Still silence, but Ringer puffed out his lower lip. "Come _on_," he said. "Hurry. Please."

"I need to _go_," he whined again, and finally, the steel door across the room slid open with a sigh of whispering metal.

Well, it was about fucking _time_.

Ringer's hands clenched on the arms of the chair.

* * *

Matt had his library network on a remote feed, patched and routed to his handheld, and it was that display he had pulled up as he ran. Back before Near had called him away, away to that fucking _waste of time_, Matt had been running his searcher program for Mello, and finally, it was yielding present-time results.

It was impossible to ghost every bloody camera in the school. Impossible. So Matt hadn't been surprised when a green blip had showed up on his screen, blinking with all the bright vitality of electric wire. He _had_ been surprised, though, when the green dot had started _moving_, like a fucking aphid crawling across his screen.

_Mello_—

(Near, you fucking moron, you called me away just for this, didn't you? To distract me, to keep me from beating you _again_, you narrow-minded vindictive _bastard_—)

Matt was off and running, his bare feet slapping against the tile, eyes glued to the glowing screen of his handheld while relief burned white-hot on his tongue. Burned, though, not soothed, because there was the acrid knowledge that either Mello had escaped, or was being moved, and either way, Matt had _failed_, again. Tasting the relief of finally finding Mello, of being so very close to catching the murderer—it was like swallowing a glowing poker, but Matt did it gladly.

Never again, he swore, never again—he'd never be this _useless_, never be just another peripheral bystander. His left hand kept track of the wall, jutting out by his side and leaving oily fingerprints along the white paint while his feet pumped. Left, right, left, right; air pounded through his lungs and blood pounded through his brain. One more resolution—I'm going to get in shape, I swear, because this is so fucking inconvenient—

The pixels on his handheld blurred into a haze, and Matt kept running.

* * *

**AN**: Well, that's all for now, folks! I'm gonna crawl away and die, m'kay?

Tell me what you think thus far. I can feel this thing slipping out of my control. Ugh! Well, anyway...**Reviews are loved!**

Fly


	22. Knotting

**AN:** So, folks, I apologize for my delay. Seriously. This past week has been fairly rotten...I had my AP test Wednesday, which ate my brain; following that, I went to band class, screamed at my stalker, and had a hysterical breakdown. Needless to say, writing was a bit far from my mind--or, to be more precise, my mind was far from being _able_ to write. Regardless, I think this chapter is...decent. Some of the characters from past chapters are going to make some...mildly random reappearances, but the plot is drawing together nicely. (What? Plot? Conclusion? I'm actually going to _finish_ something for once?) Ach_-hem_. Anyway. Thank you so very much to everyone who has reviewed...I will reply to you all posthaste, but for now: sleep beckons. Enjoy, and let me know if I've got formatting issues; Word was being quirky.

Quirky! Melikes that word!

Oh, and as a side note--I reference Beyond Birthday later on. I gave myself a mental smack when I realized that I might have...possibly...given people a few minor spoilers. _Damn_. I can't rewrite it now, though. I'm sorry! cowers It's...kind of a big metaphor in one of the parts of this chapter, and I...well. Basically: L gets a strawberry jam obsession during the BB Murder Case, but it's never shown in the anime. That's it. It's nothing too critical. shrugs So, jam equals memories of B. That's all...it's funny, actually, to read, because poor Naomi is absolutely _freaked_ by Ryuzaki's jam obsession. Yay! We love our detective.

(No mention of the novel in reviews, please, unless you haven't read it. Heh. If you've read it--you'll notice a few more things, that's all! But review nevertheless, because I lurves yooz.)

_-Fly_

_Sunday, May 11th, 2008, 10:50 pm_

* * *

Mello ran.

The tiles slipped past his feet like atmosphere under airfoils, unseen by blinded eyes. All that existed was the hiss of static breath catching in his throat and the rattling of bones with each jarring stride. Behind him, another pair of feet matched his own gait, clattering against the tile as the invisible pursuer swore and tried to keep up.

_"Mello!"_

Mello ignored the voice, focusing instead on the unfamiliar motion of running. After so many hours of forced immobility, his muscles were weak, cramped; every step sent another spiral of pain lacing through his calves. He didn't have time to work himself into a faster pace. He was close enough to taste it now—_victory_.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the fact that his pursuer was still some distance away, far enough that the twisting corridors rendered him invisible. He was a slow one—it wouldn't be too hard to shake him. It hadn't taken him long to appear, lagging behind Mello's path, revealing himself by noise alone.

Just another obstacle.

Mello swung around another turn and felt his cracked lips splitting into a relieved smile. _This_ was a place he recognized—the main hallway, in all of its antiseptic glory. The lights were dimmed, faded into a gray haze in recognition of post-curfew hours, but he recognized the broad corridor nevertheless. He was…back. Not that he had ever left, but…

He decided to give up on logic for the time being, instead opting to scan for a potential way to lose the demented kid trailing after him. He found it in the form of the kitchen door—such a bloody familiar place it was just _wrong_, absurdly incongruous in the face of his current situation. Mello wrenched the door open and snapped it shut behind him, being careful not to slam it. Outside, he heard the violent percussion of the other boy's feet decelerate, then stop. His palms trembled on the wood, slick with sweat and blood. So close…

"Mello?"

Another forlorn call, and Mello dimly thought that he should have known who the speaker was. Then the patter of footsteps picked up again—slowly, this time, almost disappointedly. Mello felt his bruised lips break into another smile. The kid had probably been his guard. Oh, Mello's pity for him was _boundless_—he hoped he got in a fair share of trouble. Served him right.

And then a wooden spoon rapped him sharply on the shoulder, and Mello stiffened instantly. His throbbing muscles clamped down into rigidity as he stifled the urge to jump. Slowly, tensely, he drew the fragmented shards of his composure back together and stitched them rapidly into a patchwork cloak. Mask locked in place, expression frozen, he forced himself to turn around and meet the wielder of the cooking utensil.

His eyes traversed the folds and billows of cloth, beginning at the rounded apron and traveling upwards to meet the face of the last person he had expected to see, so long after curfew. He licked his lips warily. "I…Cook?"

Cook smiled at him and held out a hand. "Do you plan on crouching there," she said, "or would you like a seat?"

When he carefully accepted the outstretched hand, she pulled, bringing him stumbling to his feet. Five minutes later, he was seated at a barstool, legs locked around the rungs, a mug of rich hot chocolate smoldering between his hands. Cook flipped the oven off and took a seat at the stool next to him. The dim lighting cast half her face in shadow, highlighting the parched gorges and ragged furrows of a war-blasted landscape. She sighed and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the tensing of the muscles underneath her hand. "So," she murmured, "are you all right?"

Mello addressed his hot chocolate in a dull monotone. "Are you serious?"

Cook frowned. "What?"

"Where's Matt?"

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "Mello—"

"I want to see Matt."

His eyes—blue, crystalline, as sharp as glacial ice—matched hers, pierced hers, until she nodded and reached for the phone. "Very well."

The wall phone's cord twined around her arms like a strangler vine. Cook punched in a sequence of numbers with rapid accuracy, and the dial tone was replaced with a short burst of ringing.

"Wammy?" Cook cradled the phone against her ear. "Yes. Yes, I'm sorry, I know—" A pause. "I've got him here, actually." Wammy's voice buzzed over the phone, curt and staccato. " Yes. He wants to speak with Matt…no. No, he doesn't. He's fine." Cook closed her eyes. "Are you sure…? No, I apologize. I'll keep him here until Matt comes. Thank you." She unwound the cord from her arm and replaced the phone in the cradle. She turned back to Mello. "That's it, Mello. Your friend is on his way."

Mello's eyes hadn't altered. "Is he?"

"Well—yes, of course. Wammy said that he was in the process of contacting him."

"Huh." Mello shifted his gaze back to his hot chocolate, which remained untouched. "Why are you here so late, anyway?"

"It's my room." Cook laughed softly. "I live in the kitchens, Mello. I could have had my own room, but—I didn't feel the need. My colleagues and I aren't on the best of terms."

"Why not?"

If Cook was irritated or insulted by the dull steel current biting beneath his words, she gave no sign. "It's rather petty, I suppose," she said. "They—the others are less than pleased with Wammy's…oversight." She gave a wry chuckle. "I was never as bothered. Roderick, Palsy, Larkson…all of them had a chance at being the next child prodigy. I was never even close." She shook her head. "It smarts, for them to be subservient to the man who was supposed to cater to their whims someday, but that's all irrelevant now." Cook pressed a hand on Mello's shoulder. "Now, why don't you drink your hot chocolate? Matt will be along shortly, along with Quilish."

Mello paused and looked from her to the mug in his hands, staring at the cocoa as if it held the answers to the universe's secrets. "Matt always liked you. Said you actually cared about the kids, instead of L's game."

Cook remained silent.

"You know," Mello said aloud, "I'm getting really sick of being moved around like a bloody pawn."

"Mello—"

Mello rose to his feet and stretched, working out the kinks still present in his neck. Five minutes, maybe ten—was that all the respite he was going to get?

Life was looking rather lousy.

"Don't bother," he said dully. "Don't you think I can recognize lies when I see them?" He dragged a hand through his matted hair. "I've been _missing._ You should have escorted me to Wammy as soon as I walked in the door, unless what Matt said was true, and they really don't care."

Cook's brows contracted in alarm. "Mello—"

He lobbed the mug of hot chocolate at her face and ran out the door, letting it clatter shut behind him. And then he was running again—running, always running, and god damn it, this wasn't supposed to be happening again.

Back in the kitchen, Cook wiped the steaming liquid from her eyes and reached for the wall phone again.

"Wammy?"

**oO0OopPpoO0Oo**

"L, please listen—"

"Listen to what?" L spun around in his chair and swirled a finger around the jar of jam. He bit savagely into the sugarcoated digit. "Please leave me be, Wammy. We have more important things to discuss."

Wammy reached up and massaged his temples wearily, but if L noticed or cared, he gave no sign. He had his own world—carefully crafted, sculpted to fit _his_ needs, and no one else's. If Wammy was frustrated, it was no fault of his own. L was far more concerned with catching the murderer, with finding Mello, with _solving the case—_

"L, do you realize that you're eating strawberry jam?"

The detective kicked out at his desk, forcing his chair to spin around to face Wammy. He dug into the jam jar again, licking the strawberry from his index finger impassively. "Yes."

"L—"

"Does it bother you?"

Wammy fell silent, and L chuckled to himself with more than a small taste of irony. Beyond Birthday—_that_ case had been a nightmare. It had been…disquieting, enormously so, to see one of the Wammy Children so absolutely determined to exceed him. B's life, and his death, had marked the first serious challenge to Wammy's principles that L had seen in far too long. It had been Wammy who had talked him through it, then, Wammy who had propped up L's own floundering philosophies, Wammy who had reconstructed the mask of L for the sake of healing Lawliet. Lawliet still mourned Beyond Birthday, quietly, one the rare occasions when that personality was allowed to resurface. To see that Quilish Wammy regretted it as well was an interesting revelation indeed.

"You know," L said, staring into the depths of the jam jar, "I'm wondering if you're really concerned about this case."

Wammy stiffened. "Are you questioning my honesty, L?"

"Truthfully? Of course." L looked away from the jar and turned his steady gaze on Wammy. "From the beginning, this has been handled…messily. It's a single murder, _by a child_, Watari." The use of his onetime mentor's professional name was a deliberate slap. "L would be made the laughingstock of the detective world were this case made public."

"It won't be."

"But still." L shook his head. "I have relied on you as my venue for information too much, perhaps. Please refrain from playing games with me."

Wammy took a step closer to the desk and laid his palms on the polished wood. "_Lawliet._"

The detective fell silent and stared pensively up at Wammy through the tar pits that functioned as his eyes. Wammy exhaled slowly. "Please, L," he pressed. "This case is almost resolved. We have the program's results, and that should be enough—"

"I disagree with Near's program, then."

"—And it's time we start dealing with the aftermath." Wammy's hands slid from the desk and he resumed his typical posture. "Just consider my recommendations. You said so yourself that they were needed."

"It's not the changes I'm questioning," L snapped, "it's your motivations, Quilish! Surely you don't expect me to believe—"

"Expect you to believe that I have an intellect of my own?" Wammy's voice rose to match L's. "Write me off as an old man with no sense of justice if you must, Lawliet, but do not think me so _petty_ that—"

"_Quilish Wammy,_ _you will not argue with me!"_

Wammy's mouth snapped shut, and L slammed the jam jar on the desk and rose from the chair. His limbs unfolded and his joints unknotted with arachnoid dexterity as his spine stretched into something resembling a straight position. "You _will not_ argue," L repeated in a low hiss. "I would think that by now I would have earned your honesty."

Quilish's eyes remained flat. "I do everything for a reason, L."

L's knuckles quivered for a moment on the desk. His eyes held Wammy's, adamant and distant, cold and angry, before he sank slowly back into his chair, never breaking the contact. Their gazes remained locked as L reached for the jam. His index finger twirled around the rim and came to his lips. The strawberry stained his lips like blood, and Wammy didn't miss the symbolism.

"Just sign the papers," he said softly. "I apologize…but that's what you wanted, wasn't it?"

L suckled on his index finger for a moment more, tasting the copper sweetness of strawberry pooling on his tongue. "Arrogance," he said dully. "That's supposed to be _my_ weakness. Do you think my world revolves around you?"

Wammy's lips split at the old joke. "Ah," he said quietly. "But it does."

"Perhaps," L murmured, more to himself than Wammy, "that was our mistake."

He reached for his pen and wedged it between his teeth. He pulled; the cap came off with a smooth click, and he spat it out onto the desk. "Tell me the truth," L demanded, leveling the pen at Quilish like a makeshift projectile. "I won't sign until you do."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Wammy replied dully. He combed a hand through his thinning hair. "Isn't this what you were talking about? A 'radical overthrow of the old system'?"

"You're being insolent."

"I rather think that title applies to _you_—"**  
**  
_Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat._

Wammy cut off into silence at the sound of the knocking. "Who is it?" L called irritably. He signaled to Wammy, and the older man nodded and went to stand by the door. Outside, a muffled voice called.

"L, please open the door."

L threw the pen down on the desk and shot Wammy a significant look that said quite plainly, _this isn't over._ "Come in."

The door opened to reveal a very irate albino. He glanced around at the multifaceted monitor displays that had somehow managed to materialize within the last few hours, then shifted his attention back to the detective. "Where is Matt?"

L frowned. "Near, we're working—"

"I need to know where he is."

The detective brought his thumb to his lips and regarded Near speculatively. The boy's white hair—disheveled at the best of times—was a twisted mess, even more so than L's own. There was something new in his eyes, too—a fever-bright intensity that was more startling than L cared to admit. It had been a long time since he had seen Near actually care about anything.

This really wasn't the time.

"Near," L said as he bit down on his thumbnail, "you must understand that we're extremely close to catching the murderer. Wammy tells me that within the hour, we should have our results—"

"Not soon enough," Near said immediately. "Please…sir."

His chin jerked a little with the last statement, oddly defiant. "Is something wrong?" L inquired coolly. "I was unaware that—"

"Hello?"

L frowned, irked at being cut off. Wammy had his index finger pressed to his ear, focusing on a stream of audio being beamed to his headset. His eyes closed as he listened. "Very well. Thank you." He removed his finger and looked to his former pupil. "L—"

"Go," L said irritably. Wammy nodded.

"I apologize—"

_"Go."_

Wammy shrugged and walked past Near, leaving as silently as always. L's teeth worried his fingernail. His sensory capabilities were well tuned, and Near's reaction had simply been…odd. As Wammy had walked past, Near had…stiffened. Not only that, but his eyes had flickered with something that was far too human for it to be coming from the young boy: distaste.

Well, well. It certainly looked like the events of the past week were taking their toll on more than one of them.

L glanced over at one of his monitors, affirming that Wammy had indeed left them, and looked back at his pupil. "Near," he said, forcing thoughts of the old man from his mind, "would you mind explaining?"

Near _looked _at him.

L was supposed to have been his superior, his goal, an illusive deity, and to comprehend such a deity was supposed to result in catastrophe. That was how Near had structured his world.

Such a pity that it was all falling to pieces about his ears.

"I am disappointed," he said blandly. "Is that explanation enough?"

L arched an eyebrow.

Oh, life was becoming so wonderfully interesting.

"I suppose so," he replied. "Now—would you like to look for Matt?" Wammy would wait. Lies would wait. _Lawliet_ would have to wait. He was L. L. Nothing more than a flat letter on a computer screen, floating in cyberspace untold miles away.

Near smiled, flashing the peculiar half-moon of tight-lipped amusement.

"Let's."

**oO0OopPpoO0Oo**

Ringer's face stretched into a plastic grin as the door slid open, revealing one stoop-backed old retainer, his face creased with wrinkles and apathy. Roger had always been the most enigmatic of the staff—superficially concerned, but entirely deferent to Wammy, two conditions that should have been irreconcilable. If Roger was the one in charge of him—well, he might stand _some_ chance, at least. Ringer looked pointedly at the bonds on his wrists. "Now?"

The door slid shut again, sealing them within the metallic cell. Roger pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and closed his eyes, as if willing a rising migraine to go away. The motion made Ringer giddy. "Ringer—"

"What?" Ringer wriggled in his seat. "Come on, old man."

Roger reopened his eyes and regarded the captive boy impassively. Ringer's gaze immediately snapped to the keys dangling from his leather belt, slim and silver, and Roger repressed a shudder of revulsion. The look in the boy's eyes was far too feral, far too hungry, and this entire situation made his skin itch with distaste. A twelve-year-old never should have been forced into solitary confinement. "Ringer. Behave yourself, yes?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Can I go now?"

Roger unclipped the metal ring from his belt and inserted it briskly into the keyholes. "I suppose," he murmured. "This will all be done with soon enough, anyway."

Roger honestly did not approve of this situation. Children were—well, children, and such treatment as this struck him as singularly unwarranted. Ringer was such a poor, miserable specimen; he had failed, and wasn't that enough for Quilish's satisfaction? There was nothing more to be gained from this poor child, and certainly nothing to be lost. Wammy House had taken anything that might have been there to begin with.

The bindings clicked, but remained shut. Roger walked around to the back of the chair and did—something. Ringer, despite his twisting, couldn't see. The cuffs sprang open. "Good," Roger said. "Now, come along—"

Ringer was already on his feet, much to Roger's discomfort; he was spinning around on the balls of his feet, arms outstretched, for all the world like—

Like a child.

Roger had had children of his own, once, but they were long since dead—lost to a terrorist attack in some third-world backwater, an attack that had led to his acquaintanceship with Quilish Wammy. The children of Wammy House were poor replacement for the glowing memories of his own sons. Their most vibrant emotion was cruelty; their only games involved cold brutality. To see Ringer so honestly happy…

Ringer caught the old man staring and stopped abruptly in mid-spin, his arms falling limply to his side as he once again took up the mask of the bored bystander. "Oh," he said. "Sorry."

Roger's lined face remained as expressionless as his voice. "Come along," he repeated, and turned to the sealed door. The interior scanner beeped at him as it briskly read his palm. The steel opened again. "Ringer, your wrist, please."

The boy's brow furrowed. "What…oh."

Roger's wiry hand latched onto his wrist and pulled him close, gentle but as firm as a vice. "Come."

The door closed behind them, and Roger could feel the quieting of Ringer's pulse as soon as he passed into the relatively fresher air of the basement hall. Solitary confinement—Wammy was known for his eccentricities, but normally he had his reasons. Surely Ringer wasn't dangerous, compared to the criminals they normally dealt with. This was bordering on insanity

"Roger," Ringer said abruptly, "why am I being held? I haven't done anything."

He didn't drop his mask. "I believe that's not quite correct, Ringer. What you did to Mello speaks for itself."

Ringer bit his lip. "I didn't—I didn't want to hurt Mello. I just wanted to get out." He scowled up at Roger. "You can't tell me that you think L is the all-mighty ruler of all of us. I got sick of being a prisoner. Is that a crime?"

Roger fell silent for a moment. "L is the world's wielder of Justice," he said finally. "Justice was never meant to be kind."

The boy's gaze slipped to his captive wrist. "Will you let go of me? I've been tied to a chair for—I dunno. Hours. I wasn't exactly well-furnished in that cell."

"I can't do that," Roger replied quietly, and Ringer slipped back to sulking.

They climbed the stairs in silence. It was hard to remember, times like these, that these children had the bitter brand of genius burned into their souls. Ringer was acting so very predictable, like any other miserable young miscreant, that Roger honestly didn't know—

Ah.

The warning bells should have gone off long before now. Ringer was acting predictably stereotypical, and that was precisely what was wrong. Wammy House children—Wammy House children were not normal. That was the principle on which the House had been founded, a characteristic it had always cultivated carefully. For Ringer to be acting this predictably was simply wrong.

He was a bad actor, then.

Roger sighed and pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. At least he had a hold on the boy. He would take him to the lavatory, then bring him back down, and that would be that. Back to normalcy.

Roger brought them to the lavatory door and released his hold on the boy's wrist. "There you are," he said briskly. Ringer grimaced and rested his hand lightly on the doorknob.

"Thanks, I guess," he muttered, and moved to push the door open. Roger settled back, content to wait. He needed time to compose his thoughts.

When Ringer emerged, there was—something different. It only took Roger a moment to register the nearly invisible change in the boy's physique, but it was a precious moment nonetheless. By the time his mind—long complacent from the task of overseeing children—recalled exactly what the distortion in the folds of cloth represented, Ringer's hands were already reaching for the weapon concealed under his shirt. The metal rod struck him squarely between the eyes before Roger had the opportunity to respond.

Ringer watched impassively as the old man buckled to his knees, then left, jogging through the hallways with a warm knot of satisfaction bubbling up from his stomach.

**oO0OopPpoO0Oo**

Matt followed the progress of the green blip with dogged determination. First, it had migrated to the kitchens, and he had been so very, very hopeful that Mello was safe, but—he was running again. What the hell was going on?

"Oi—Matthais."

He nearly collided into Acer. The older boy loomed over him, grinning his typical Cheshire smirk, looking for all the world as if it were the old days and Matt was just another piece of fucking prey.

God _damn_ it, he didn't have time for this.

"Get out of my way," he snarled—or tried to. His voice quivered, and Acer shook his head. The smirk was gone.

"Don't bother. You're looking for that blonde-headed mutt of yours?"

"I'm—"

Matt stopped, interrupting himself. Mello. Mello. He needed to get past this bleeding moron. There wasn't _time_; Mello was still running, which meant he probably was far from safe. Acer was just _wasting his time._ Again.

"—you can't." Acer frowned. "You listening?"

"Not really, no," Matt muttered, shifting a hand into his pocket and closing around the baton. "You going yet?"

"Matt, look, listen to me. You can't go this way."

"Why not?"

"Because—"

"Matt!"

A third voice, this one feminine, interrupted Acer: the old, familiar voice of Cook. Acer whirled around. "Oh, _Christ_—Matt, look, just listen to me, we've got to—"

"Matt, I just saw Mello. He's off running again." Cook trotted to reach them, moving deceptively quickly for her girth. "We've got to hurry."

There was something congealed and brown faintly visible on her face, crawling across the expanse of skin in miniscule rivers. Matt's nostrils flared in recognition—_chocolate_…

"Matt," Acer said, oddly urgent, "we've got to go."

"Yes," Cook agreed amicably. "Both of you, come with me. We need to catch up with him before someone else does."

Matt's feet were rooted to the floor.

And how the _hell_ did either of them know anything about Mello? Cook—Cook might have known something from L or Wammy. Might have. But Acer had no excuse—he had known that Mello was missing, sure, but if he knew anything else, anything that Matt himself didn't know, there was no way he had stumbled upon it innocently. The same could be said for Cook, actually—she was, when all was said and done, simple kitchen staff. Why would _she_ have new information?

And if she had "just seen" Mello, she should've told someone. Told _me_. _Mello would have come to me first._ Wammy and L would've known. Matt hadn't snagged the second-place title by being an idiot—he had a brain. He was here, being stalled by two lying opponents, and Mello was running from _something_.

Cook's brow puckered. "Matt," she said slowly, "what are you holding?"

Matt glanced down reflexively at his handheld, still beeping Mello's location. "Nothing," he said flatly. "Where's Mello?"

"Matt, please, let me see that."

He stared at Cook's outstretched hand, stared at the rivers of hot chocolate streaming down her face, and felt his blood snap with realization.

_First, the blip had migrated to the kitchens, and he had been so very, very hopeful that Mello was safe, but—he was running again._

The _kitchens_. The bloody _kitchens_, Cook with hot chocolate down her face, and Mello running again. What was going _on_?

"Acer," he muttered, and the older boy nodded.

"Matt," Cook said worriedly. "Wammy needs to tell you—"

"Go," Matt snarled, and he spun around and _ran_. Beside him, Acer's legs drummed in cadence as tile scrambled beneath their feet and their shoes squealed against the cold flooring. Cook exclaimed _something_ and pursued them for a few steps before the tattoo of running feet faded from three to two.

"What the hell is this about?" he demanded as they ran. Acer shot him a glance and snorted.

"If you think I'm doing this out of the kindness of my heart, you can go fuck yourself," he informed Matt tartly. "I'm saving my own ass—that's what this is about."

"Non-answer," Matt growled as they swung around a corner. Acer was in the lead now; he was leading them on a zigzagging trail through the smaller corridors. Matt kicked out against a wall and sprinted to keep up.

"Mello's in a spot of trouble," Acer managed between breaths. "That's all."

"And I've got no guarantee that you're screwing me over?" Matt's breath whipped through his throat. "Where's your pack?"

"Hell if I know." Acer's eyes darkened. "I had to disband them."

"You _what_?"

"Long story," the older boy growled, and Matt laughed. It burst strangled from his throat like a bark, killed by a lack of breath and a disbelief in humor.

"I bet," he said. "So. You've been knocked off your high horse, eh? What happened? Did Linel—"

"Shut up," Acer said. His cheeks were scarlet. Matt could have assumed it was from the running. Maybe.

"Like hell," he retorted, and just as a precautionary measure, he kept his hand hovering around his pocketed baton.

Puzzle Board, Matt decided, was going to seem plain _dull_ when all this was over.

**oO0OopPpoO0Oo**

_"Linel."_

The mechanical voice flashed through the silence, tearing apart the broken remnants of his tranquility with its synthesized summoning. Linel blinked and glanced down at his watch. "Where…?"

The voice chuckled, sending Linel's molars buzzing; the simulation's voice algorithm apparently couldn't handle laughter. _"An implant behind your ear. It's unimportant. Have you reached him?"  
_  
Linel's breath hissed past his teeth. "No. It's not my fault. Martin stopped me—"  
_  
"We've lost him."_

"Are you serious? You couldn't bloody hold the kid for a goddamned day—"

_"Linel."_

It was a warning—that much was clear even through the computer's forced intonation. Linel slammed his open palm into the wall. "Don't treat me like a kid."

_"You will be treated based on your own merits, not by your ranking. Those were our terms, were they not?"_

Oh, well, that was hilarious. "You're not in charge here."

_"Aren't I?"  
_  
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the wall. It was dim, in the hall, and the drywall was cool; above him, the industrial lighting glimmered gray. Linel forced himself to speak. "Acer dissolved his pack. I've got what I wanted—"

_"Lying doesn't become you, either."_ Funny how sarcasm carried even through the synthesizer.

Linel fell silent. The voice continued._ "Find him. I would hurry if I were you."_

"Fuck you." Linel pressed his fingers to the swathe of skin behind his ear, probing for the implant. "I never asked for this." He found it, then—a tiny ridge of uneven skin, humming with the barely audible buzz of electricity. "You planted a goddamned bug in my skin, without my consent! Who the hell are you?"  
_  
"That is unimportant."  
_  
"Keep hiding behind your pretty little faux voice, that's the way it's played. Who do you think you are? Some modern-day, breathing Joshua? This isn't a game." Linel unbuckled his watch and scowled at it. "This isn't…isn't a game anymore. I'm not exactly having fun, you ken?"  
_  
"You're mad,"_ the voice observed. Linel snorted.

"You think?"

_"Whatever has upset you is not my fault."_ The simulated voice paused. _"Please find Matt and Mello for me. It is imperative."_

"Fine."  
_  
"Good. All this will be over soon, Linel. Thank you for your cooperation."_

"Go to hell."

Silence returned.

Linel scowled and rebuckled his watch around his wrist. It lay there, encircling his pulse like a parasitic spider, cool and metallic and dim.

He started walking again.


	23. Prime

**AN**: This is Primes, back after a long absence. This chapter, important as it is, has not been proofread. My apologies in advance for grammatical errors, stylistic issues, etc. I hope you'll enjoy it, as I hope you've enjoyed the whole.

Questions at the end are more than welcome. This is a short chapter; this has not been a short story. Thank you all for bearing with me, particularly after my long absence. I have my doubts as to the literary merits of Primes, but this has been a learning experience, and an enjoyable one, one which would not have been possible without all of you.

My next story, Binary Helix, also features Mello and Matt, albeit older. Fun in the present tense. I hope to see some of you in the future--in Binary as well as elsewhere, because I don't plan on quiting writing. Now: enough self-promotion.

Sayonara; because it must be so. Twenty-three is a prime number, you know.

-Fly

* * *

He opens the phone.

"Virgil here."

"Good. Have you found him?"

"No. He keeps running. Not that I blame him, you know."

There was a pause, and he waited, until finally—

"Yes. Of course."

Now that the error had been admitted, both were finished with the other. The line went dead, severed on both ends simultaneously.

* * *

"So," Matt said. "You going to tell me where we're going?"

"Nope."

They had slowed to a steady jog, which gave Matt a chance to catch his breath. Acer, however, was telling no tales. Matt considered opening his mouth to demand a better answer, but thought better of it.

Fine.

Acer was wearing a watch. It was an odd thing to notice, but in the dim, post-curfew halls, the gleam of metal caught his attention.

Or maybe Matt was just a little bit clairvoyant, because the watch—it beeped, and Acer stopped in his tracks to examine it.

"Hello," he began, and Matt stopped short.

* * *

"L," Near began, "you owe me something."

L tipped his head to the side. "Do I?"

The answer to that question was already evident, and it showed in the flat impatience behind the boy's eyes. L sighed and fixed his gaze on the hallway ahead. "I suppose I do, Near. But somehow I think that an explanation on my part has been rendered unnecessary."

Near's hands remained comfortably in his pajama pockets, away from the mop of white hair that normal found itself entangled in his fingers. "Yes," he said blandly. "I believe that deduction would be correct."

L nodded and reached into his jeans pocket. Like the awkwardly jointed limbs of a spider, his fingers drew out the phone, a slim bar of blue-brushed silver metal pinched precariously between an index finger and thumb. With a jerk, his thumb snapped the lid open, and L looked at Near. "I have a call to make," he said. "I hope you don't mind. Your deductions—however complete—will not include certain elements, and I don't particularly enjoy explaining myself repeatedly. It will be easier to gather the others."

Now Near's fingers jerked themselves free of his self-control, twisting along the pale strands of his hair. "The others," he repeated in a soft murmur, and L nodded.

"You'll see," he declared confidently, and his fingers scrambled over the keys. Near watched him as the cheerful, simulated ringtone sang through the speakers, and L sighed. The boy's patience was probably wearing thin.

Thankfully, the voice on the other end picked up almost immediately. "Cook here."

The detective didn't bother with a preamble. "Acer's got him?"

"Yes, naturally. I can do my job."

L scratched the skin of his left calve with his right toe as Near watched, silent, like a stone-eyed angel judging the denizens of its courtyard. "I'm quite aware of that. Thank you for your cooperation, Agatha." He wouldn't call her by her chosen name, the pseudonym taken as a none-too-discrete bit of mockery. _It's my profession_, she had explained simply at the time. _Isn't that what you approve of, sir? The belief that one's job ought to become one's identity?_

Her sigh crackled over the line. "Things _are_ going to change, you said?"

"Yes." His disinterest was thinly veiled. Neither of them—L or Near—was particularly talented in the social realm. Such abilities were rather superfluous.

"Good," Cook retorted, and she hung up the line.

* * *

The only remaining variable was Mello.

The hallways of the orphanage were less than complex. Secure in his location, Mello headed towards what was to him the only logical destination: the exit. He had had enough of this, and so far the House had taught him two things.

The first was that life actually _could_ be decent, to the point of actually being enjoyable. The warping of the mind to accommodate new riddles, the predatory play of Puzzle Board, the quiet lulls in which he was free to simply exist—life at Wammy house had been, for a time, _fun_.

The second thing he had learned was that _fun_ was entirely unsustainable and unlikely to continue.

Such a pity, that. When even the children are cynics, you just _know_ that the apocalypse is around the corner.

* * *

In retrospect, it was quite the grievous error on my part to label Mello as the _only_ variable.

Ringer had a single goal: escape.

All that he wanted was to get out. Away. He had long since grasped the underlying purpose that served as Wammy House's brittle foundation. As an outsider, as a prop, as one of a hundred unnecessary fifth wheels, he could see things far more clearly than Mello or Near, and perhaps more importantly, he cared enough to see them. Ringer wanted _out_.

The sawed-off towel bar still gripped in his hand, Ringer trotted grimly towards the front doors. He really did hope that the old man was still breathing; if not, he'd be more than a simple runaway, and that really wasn't something he wanted to bother with.

Not right now.

* * *

"I was right," Near said. It wasn't quite an assertion, but it certainly wasn't a question, either; it simply _was_. Regardless of its validity, Near had thrown it into open air, a sail woven of estimates and predictions, a sail that could only be tested in the winds of reality. Such a sail had to be treated as if it _was_ correct, simply because there was no other alternative. Caution had few merits.

"Partially," L replied. He folded the cell phone back into a slim bar and continued walking. "This is going to be interesting, you know."

"Good," Near said, and they continued onward.

* * *

"Who was that?" Matt demanded. His skin felt like it was laced with nettles; every muscle in his body was taut with distrust, and the fight-or-flight intoxication of adrenaline was well on its way to swamping his bloodstream.

"L," Acer replied shortly. He motioned for Matt to follow. "We're going to get Mello. Apparently he's headed for the front doors."

"Apparently?"

"L seems to have more resources than he told you," Acer retorted. "Surprising, eh?"

Matt wondered. In the two seconds it took him to reply to Acer's jibe, his mind skipped from possibility to possibility, ferreting out the most likely truths behind this new information. Something, he concluded, had changed; the real question was—did anything really matter, at this point?

"We're almost there," he said again, opting for the simple truth of observation, and Acer made a noncommittal grunt.

"I'm leaving after you get him," he said abruptly, and Matt shrugged.

Good.

* * *

When Mello finally stumbled into the front hall, he was struck by the immense darkness more than anything else. The lights were dimmed, of course, as they were throughout the building, but more important were the windows. The great panes of angled glass lined the wall from floor to ceiling. During the daylit hours, the sun creating blinding patterns of rainbows along the hall, like the shadows of so many captured butterflies imprisoned within the glass. At night, they served simply as windows into the darkness of the grounds, reminders of the very empty world of England's night. Looking out past the glass—it gave one the feeling of standing with one's toes curled around the edge of a canyon overhang, perilously close to the thin line between exhilaration and oblivion.

And then there was the door. The entrance to Wammy House was sealed with a pair of mahogany slabs, locked with a wooden beam. The faint ceiling lights brushed the wood with gray-yellow shadows, and the effect convalesced into a single gleaming rectangle set apart against the darkness, like some sort of celestial portal. Mello staggered towards it slowly until his hands rested comfortably on the beam. The blood he had earned upon escaping from the room had long since dried on his hands, and all he could feel was the grain of the wood, smooth and dark and solid.

"Mello."

It took his mind a moment to process the voice, and once he had, he wondered if this latest development would turn out for good or ill. He turned around, facing the voice's owner with a surly expression, all too ready to shove the wooden beam securing the doors out of the way and flee to god-knew-where. In front of him, L regarded him steadily, his inky eyes dark and unreadable. Near stood at the detective's side, silent, and Mello felt an abrupt surge of hatred for the boy's calm implacability. What had the albino invested in any of this that had brought L to drag him along?

"I'm going," he said aloud.

L's back hunched further still, if that was possible, and the curve of his spine rendered Mello the taller of the two. "Please wait," L said.

At Mello's back, the darkness hummed. He could feel its weight—an oppressive, ominous presence, like a wave of humidity pressing at one's throat. So very close to the void…

"Why should I?"

L sighed and looked away, beyond Mello and through the glass. The stars flickered feebly outside, no match for the overwhelming presence of night without the moon to aid them. It would be days before the white mirror returned to cast the sun's shadow into the darkness. His hands shifted in his pockets as the detective settled his weight on his right foot. "Please, Mello," L repeated. He worried his lip between his teeth, then stopped, as if becoming aware of the motion. "I'm…sorry, for what has happened. You need…well, food and rest, certainly, but you can get those on your own, without my aid." Mello's eyes flickered, and L continued. "I owe you some explanation," L said. "But you're not the only one to which it is owed. Don't act like a child, Mello."

"I'm not," Mello retorted. "Look, just—just go away."

"I can't do that."

"And why the hell not?" Anger, seeping into his voice with the quiet savagery of any human emotion. "I don't trust you."

"Mello."

"I _don't_."

And through it all, Near: plain, bland Near, with his white pajamas and granite eyes. Near, who listened, and did not speak.

"I don't," Mello repeated.

"What can you do?" L looked beyond the blonde again, to the darkened grounds. "Where will you go, Mello? Will you run away, like last time? Life waits for none, Mihael Keehl—"

"_Don't call me that—_"

"—and you _don't have a choice._" L redirected his vision to the boy in front of him. "Why do you want to leave?"

Mello looked at L, looked at Near, looked at the grand, sweeping foyer of the House. He saw it all: a stooped-back man, an elderly child, architecture that was marooned in the past as surely as its inhabitants. So much for grandeur; so much for futures and dreams and tranquility. Mello leaned against the door and looked down at the ground. "I just want it to stop," he said, his voice breaking ever so slightly. Near's attention piqued; his flickered with the faint wariness of one accustomed to lies.

L shrugged, a smooth rolling of the shoulders, and maintained his gaze. "Are you accompanying us, then?" he inquired. "If so…"

Mello turned around and rested his forehead against the cool, smooth surface of the door. "I'll come," he said dully, refusing to face the detective, refusing to face his pending return.

"Good." L half-turned, waited. "In that case—"

He broke off before he could finish the sentence. Mello, ever the charlatan, lifted the thick beam securing the door with a lurch; he managed to pull the right door open before the beam clattered to the ground with a wooden thump.

Giving up had never been in the cards. He honestly hadn't known his own intentions until his hands had latched onto the door, but Mello finished what he started.

L turned and saw Mello in the process of escape. His hands, still secure in his pockets, sprang to life as the blonde darted out of the doorway like a minnow through water. A wave of crisp night air slammed into him, a sledgehammer to his senses, and Mello--he _breathed._ This was it. The air burned in his lungs, frigid and harsh, and Mello's legs tensed in preparation for a lunge.

L took out what looked, to Near's thoughtful eyes, to be a gun.

His left thumb clenched firmly in his teeth, L pulled the trigger, and there was a soft, sibilant hiss as the dart flew through the air and landed squarely in the flesh of Mello's shoulder: on target.

Mello's muscles twitched in a valiant attempt at retaliating, and then the full force of the blow sank in, and his nerves suddenly ceased functioning. He collapsed. His legs crumpled underneath of him, suddenly drained of any power, and he fell.

L's hand dropped limply to his side. The gun dangled loosely from his fingers, almost forgotten, and he stared. His dilated pupils swallowed the dark irises and reflected a murky depiction of the scene, like a pair of demented carnival mirrors distorting reality.

Near took a shuddering step backwards, staring, freezing into a perfect impersonation of a granite statue. He made no noise.

Mello didn't, either.

At that moment, Ringer was scant meters away from the foyer. He heard the swift crack, and like any proper Wammy boy, he drew the correct conclusion: it had been a gun.

Like any proper human child, he also possessed an iota of curiosity that often had the ability to overpower tenscore tons of reasoning and logic. And so he darted around the corner, towel bar clutched carefully in his hands, and he was met with the peculiar sight of Mello, slumped over with his face pressed against the brick stoop of Wammy House's front door, his legs crumpled beneath him. A thin wind gusted through the open door, rich and dark and cold, twirling Mello's hair like so much gilded thread. Ringer stood there for a long minute, mesmerized, captured by the strange, strange scene before him.

L. L, with his Sonic hair and his raccoon eyes; L, with his froglike squat and his spider-limb fingers. L, the detective; L, the overseer. L.

Ringer saw—not red—but black, the dark shade of nonexistent irises and dilated pupils, the unlit color of matted hair, the shade of the void. Black. Ringer saw black.

When he swung the towel bar, he didn't know what to expect. He wasn't thinking, really. Near was. Near skidded backwards, his pale eyes widening still further, his hair flying into disarray as he landed squarely on his rear. L, though, L—L stood there. His head turned. His dull, ever-dilated pupils took in the oncoming threat. They didn't twitch. He didn't move to defend himself, either, just stood there, and the bright flash of metal was reflected even within the dark pits of his eyes.

Ringer was…detached. He watched in fascination as his muscles moved of their own accord, a bystander in the wings.

_This is it._

The first blow sent the detective staggering. It streaked across the flawless swathe of pale skin, leaving a skittering line of bright scarlet where the jagged metal broke through his forehead. L's knees bent, but did not crumple; his spine simply accommodated for the change in angle, contorting with serpentine agility in order to compensate. It wasn't enough, not for Ringer. L's eyes stayed open.

The second blow was blocked by Matt's arm. He might have growled something, but as it was, he had just bitten his tongue, and he was _so_ very glad that he had trained himself to be ambidextrous.

"Moron," he whispered, and the slim, silver baton rapped Ringer sharply between the eyes.

This time, when Ringer saw black, it was punctuated with the starlit explosions that tend to accompany such blows. He fainted.

* * *

L drifted in and out for a while. He wouldn't talk at first. Wammy continued his ministrations. The gash on his forehead had been a particularly nasty one; it had required stitches, and it had to be constantly cleaned. It ran like a river down his skin, a thin, white line that tapered off just above his brow.

One day, in the midst of sponging L's scar, Wammy was mildly surprised to see a faint flicker of eyelids. The detective, apparently, had returned to the conscious world.

"Quilish Wammy," L had breathed, and he fell back into his sleep. Wammy was used to this. L would probably be comatose for another four hours or so, and then he wouldn't sleep again for two weeks. He had never been particularly bothered by injury.

* * *

Matt's fingers threaded through his hair like interlocking bones. As time passed, he tugged and pulled at the roots, testing for pain, trying to elicit of a response of some kind. Any kind. His body refused to deliver: he had been rendered numb.

And then there was Mello. Mello, who had been shot by the tranquilizer—he had been out for a while. The IV feed continued its steady drip, slowly replenishing the malnourished boy's bloodstream as the minutes ticked past.

"He needs to recover," Wammy had said. Matt had let that slide. If anything was obvious, it was that simple recovery was going to take a lot more than food and water. But—he let Mello sleep. It was something Matt wished for himself: his nerves were still hot-wired, and the adrenaline flooding his system had rendered him useless for anything but nervous jittering in the infirmary chair. He watched Mello. Dozing was out of the question.

* * *

As for Near, he was in the room with L. His pupils had yet to contract, and try as he might, Wammy couldn't gain a word from the taciturn observer. Near watched.

The night passed on.

* * *

Seven in the morning. Dawn long since over. Breakfast, brought by Agatha Cook at Wammy's request.

Nobody eats.

Ringer, he's still unconscious, handcuffed to his chair and on an IV of his own. There's something in it, though Wammy's the only one who knows what. It'll keep him asleep. Out of the way. The casualties of war can be sorted out later.

Acer, he walks in to see Matt. His eyes are rimmed with red, the veins obscenely pronounced and angry. Matt's body doesn't even have the energy to make his eyes inflamed. Instead, he just looks…dead.

Acer says as much. Matt shrugs. Acer leaves, and it's just Matt and Mello again. Alone.

* * *

Two days later, a disheveled group gathers in the infirmary. Wammy has ordered the nurse to remove the folding barriers between rooms. Ringer is still out, of course, but the rest of them are here. Near remains locked in his chair, still staring at nothing. L is sitting up. Mello is, too. None of them feel like talking, really. Instead of curtains, this room is draped with silence.

Wammy begins.

"First of all," he says, "my apologies."

If he notices that his words fall flat on dull ears, he ignores it. He pressed a fine-knuckled hand to his lined face and takes off his spectacles. They glimmer in the light.

"This entire debacle is my doing," he says softly. "Damage control. Recite, L."

"Damage control," L repeats in a monotone. "An effort to minimize or curtail damage or loss. Miriam-Webster, 1990 edition."

"Precisely," Wammy says.

He goes on to explain: Leo's death—a true, simple killing. An accident. And caused—yes—by Linel. A murderer, as it turns out. Or simply a killer. Wammy does not judge.

He does, however, go on to say—the need for change. For altering the system. And, perhaps more importantly, doing so in a way that won't render his prodigy—L—crippled by guilt.

"An act of paternal shielding, ostentatiously," Wammy remarks. "Or perhaps an egotistical attempt to disguise my mistake."

Every step of the investigation—a test. A proof. An excuse, so that when Wammy finally plants the "evidence," there will be an excuse to change the system. Drastically: the old ways, obviously, have vast and horrific consequences.

Matt stops listening. So does Mello. Near, he hasn't been listening to anything for a while. Or maybe he has. He's lost—drifting, as it were. Silent. Realizing, somewhere in the echoes of his mind where thought processes still churn feebly, that, yes—it _was_ Wammy interfering with his program. And isn't validation a bitter wine?

At some point, the specifics don't matter. Wammy's network of student proxies, each carrying out tasks that he himself was unable to, each ignorant of their instructor's identity. L's discovery of his teacher's improbity. Wammy's ordering of Mello's capture, all to put pressure on L and bring about a change. It doesn't matter anymore, really.

Damage control. Eventually, Wammy admits, it had morphed into a conscious attempt at manipulation. The flaws in the system had always been there; now was the opportunity to change them. Wammy had had the perfect motivator within his hands.

What does matter: there are clouds hovering over the grounds. It's going to rain. Near is still mute; Roger is stitched up. Ringer still has to be dealt with, Matt's arm nearly broke from the towel bar, Mello's hand is banged up, and the world's greatest detective is currently out of commission. L spends his time staring out the window. He really should be working on this case, or that one, but—he doesn't.

After a week, Matt goes to the library. He doesn't encounter any teachers along the way. Many have been let go. Most of the students have, too, dispersed to various orphanages and homes that Wammy is acquainted with. The old way revolved around picking out a series of primes candidates, and then filling the ranks with half-decent kids in order to reduce stress while keeping up the semblance of competition. The new crop, when they arrive next fall, may give Matt a run for his spot, if he cares enough to defend it.

The Puzzle Board—it's gleaming, even with the cloudy skies. The holographic interface boots up almost immediately.

Matt fingers his baton. It's still his—L forgot about it, which doesn't surprise him, really. There's a small dent in the tip. Ringer had a hard skull.

Matt smashes the screen. The glass implodes, and electricity hisses; a spark leaps out and bites Matt's clothing. The baton whips out, again, again, crushing the delicate interface and pummeling it into so much rubbish.

And then he stops. The Puzzle Board coughs weakly, tries to chirp. Tries to boot. Again, again; it fails. Matt kicks the cord out of the power outlet.

After that—he smiles, and leaves the library. All memories of sanity, of happiness, of contentment—effectively boxed away. He's _quite _efficient. And, honestly, Puzzle Board has no place in this new world.

Matt tosses the baton in the trash on his way out. He doesn't need it anymore. As for the smashed Puzzle Board—well.

He has better things to do.


End file.
